Guybrush sat down hard in the sand. Oh no.. "Elaine?" he called to the statue. No response. She was not going to be happy about this.    

They were on a beach east of Elaine's fort--the fort was almost in ruins but still standing. Wreckage from the battle was strewn all over the sand--a smoking skeleton of a ship was closest at hand. Guybrush picked himself up and investigated--a piece of stick nearby was still burning. He picked it up and blew out the flame, turned to throw it safely into the sea, then reconsidered and tucked it away into a pocket--an ember might come in handy. The odd things that he picked up on his adventures generally did.    

Go to do something about Elaine... A large sign nearby proclaimed the entrance to Puerto Pollo, the capital city of...whichever island this was. The town itself was within sight--he made for it at a run. He charged through Puerto Pollo without really seeing any of it, until he came to a shop that looked occupied--a barber shop, judging by the red-and-white pole next to the door. A sign overhead read "The Barbery Coast."    

He knocked. "We're closed" said a voice from within.    

"You've got to help me..it's an emergency!" Guybrush babbled. "My girlfriend..well, I guess she's my fiancee now...although she never really said yes...because the curse sort of stopped her in mid-sentence, and--"   

"Curse?!" exclaimed the voice. "Ye'll be wantin' ta see the Voodoo Lady. She handles curses."    

Nothing else emerged from the door, so he turned away and walked back out of town. Elaine still gleamed on the beach as he passed her again and turned onto a little side-trail through the woods that he hadn't noticed before. The trail wound past some sus picious, voodoo-like carvings on a tree, around a small hill, and ended in a large swamp.   

Well, not precisely. It crossed a small bridge of bones, under an arch decked with skulls, then entered a..shipwreck. It was the only way he could describe it--on a bed of live trees was an old ship, tossed this far inland by some powerful storm, lying on its side as though at rest. The masts were broken jaggedly and pointed outward toward the trail, like horns--what had once been the deck faced him, and the old hatch now served as the front door. Oddly enough, it looked as though it had been arranged that way on purpose.    

There was no gate. Guybrush ducked under the arch and started across the bridge.   

"Boo!"    

"Aaaah!" He jumped, startled, and the source of the sound--a human skull on the arch--chortled malevolently. Murray.   

"How did you get up there?" wondered Guybrush as his heartbeat slowed back to normal.    

"Through sheer force of will!" declared the evil skull. "I bring you warning from the infernal realms! Do not go further into the swamp! Turn back. Turn back! Darkness will envelop you!"    

Some of Guybrush's skepticism must have shown on his face, because Murray abruptly changed his tone. "All right, it was a bunch of those weird voodoo kids..they found me on shore and stuck me up here on this spike, all the time thinking they were so funny."    

Guybrush reflected that it must be hard on a demonic skull's pride to be used as a child's plaything. "What are you doing up there?"    

"I am standing as a testament--"    

"--'standing'?"    

"--hanging as a testament to the power of the forces of Evil that will one day claim victory over the earth!" Murray persisted.    

"How long will you do that?"    

"As long as it takes!" he declared vehemently.    

"Must get pretty dull up there" Guybrush observed.   

"Never!! The powers of darkness are never dull! We will one day prove that--" Murray suddenly cut off. "Oh, who am I trying to fool; I'm bored out of my skull. Figuratively speaking, of course."    

"Of course" Guybrush agreed, then remembered Elaine. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta go."   

Inside the ruined ship was a remarkably nice apartment. Rugs covered the floor, heavy curtains hung on the walls, a chandelier overhead looked like it might have been the ship's wheel at one time. The whole of one wall was a large alcove--Guybrush could not tell what it was supposed to do or be. Next to it stood a stuffed alligator, propped awkwardly upright on two feet.    

The floor was littered with paper dolls--paper voodoo dolls, he amended. One still had a pin in it, so he bent down and picked it up. The small pot of paste next to it was also pocketed. Across from the alcove was a gum machine--Bit o'Jerky--he used one of his nickels to buy a pack, on impulse.    

No owner was in sight, but the long tongue of the alligator dangled invitingly, at just the right level for a doorbell. He pulled it.    

A system of ropes and pulleys within the alcove began to move, and a large platform rose up within it, to the level of the floor. On the platform was a large chair surrounded by candles--within the chair was a remarkable woman. She wore an off-shoulder white dress, which set off her dark skin nicely, but her feet were encased in little frog slippers. She looked ageless, but her eyes held the wisdom of the ancients. He felt an instinctive trust in her....and a vague feeling that she looked familiar..somehow.    

"Yes," she said in a deep, gentle voice. "We have known each other for a very long time, Guybrush Threepwood. We first met on Mêlée Island, when you were first starting to be come a pirate. I twice helped you defeat LeChuck, first by preparing the voodoo antiroot, then again by helping you make a voodoo doll of his zombie form. You have been through much, so it is understandable that you have forgotten me."   

Memories came swimming back...then he recalled this formidable woman. Not just any woman, he remembered, but a voodoo priestess. She had been his guide as he struggled to pass the Three Trials required of all would-be pirates on Mêlée Island--then on Scabb Island she had helped him defeat not only LeChuck, but also his first mate, the unscrupulous Largo LeGrande. He felt slightly guilty for not remembering her immediately, but so much of the past few weeks was fuzzy..   

"You've helped so much, and I don't even know your name."   

"Names are of little importance" she assured him. "You should know that better than anyone, Guybrush Threepwood."    

"Yes, you're right..." She had placed an odd emphasis on his name. "You're mocking me, aren't you?"    

She was all innocence. "I wouldn't dream of it." At the same time, she threw a handful of something into a large pot next to her--a cloud of smoke puffed up instantly. Women. Guybrush would have rolled his eyes, but it was impossible to say what voodoo spell she was working on. He changed the subject.    

"Nice place. I love what you've done with it." Considering that it was a wrecked ship, her decor was amazing. Perhaps not even considering it.   

"Thanks. You'll have to excuse the mess. The kids came over to play with their paper voodoo dolls. They're adorable children...would you like to see some pictures?"    

No!! "Perhaps..later."   

She closed her eyes briefly. "Yes...there's no time for that now. I sense that something terrible has happened."    

Elaine sprang violently back to his mind--"Wow, you're good. Something terrible has happened. I finally proposed to Elaine--"    

"Congratulations! That doesn't sound so terri--"    

"--and when I placed the ring on her finger, she was placed under a terrible pirate curse and trapped for all time as a solid gold statue!"    

"Ahh...that explains it. I was struck with a wave of overwhelming hatred and anger."    

"Yeah, that LeChuck was a pretty mean guy."    

"I was talking about Elaine."    

"Never mind that now! We have to do something!" Guybrush burst out.    

She regarded him calmly. "Do not panic, Guybrush. She will be safe until we can break the curse. You only have to worry about her being stolen. Where did you hide her?"    

Hide her? "Oh, shoot."    

"You just left her out on the beach, didn't you? She's a solid gold statue. On an island full of pirates. What were you thinking?"   

"When you say it like that, it sounds so incompetent.."   

"Go, Guybrush! Hurry...before it's too late!"    

As it turned out, it was already too late. Still-warm handprints in the sand, the retreating end of a ship sailing around the fort and out of sight, and no Elaine clearly told the story--she had indeed been stolen by pirates. "I've got to get her back" thought Guybrush desperately. "Oh, this is so embarrassing!" What other pirate had managed to propose to his girlfriend, turn her into a statue, and then lose her, all within an hour? "Looks like I'm going to need more help."    

Back to the swamp--so agitated that the priestess made him sit down and eat something before she would let him speak. As he finished the first cup of water he'd had in days, he told her what she'd already suspected: Elaine had been stolen.   

"That is unfortunate" she replied. "You will have great difficulty getting her back." And then she told him that the only way to break LeChuck's curse was to replace the cursed ring with a pure one--of equal or greater value. Guybrush heard her out with growing dismay.    

"Isn't there a more...budget-conscious..way to break this curse?"    

"You should be able to do it with virtually no out-of-pocket expense."    

"How?"    

"Legends speak of a whopping big diamond ring on Blood Island."   

Guybush had never heard of Blood Island. "You will soon become very familiar with it." she told him. "But you must be careful, Guybrush. I have foreseen that your journey will be filled with peril and deception. I have also seen that Blood Island is the place" she looked deeply into his face "where you will die."    

Die? Did-did she say "die." As in me, dead?    

"Don't be such a baby" admonished the priestess, and he tried to get ahold of himself. After all, no one lives forever..and he'd was willing to die for Elaine. Wasn't he?    

"How do I get to Blood Island?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.    

"You will need three things--a map to Blood Island, a seaworthy ship to take you there, and an experienced crew."    

All that and Elaine, too. "Map, ship, and crew. Got it." Guybrush tried to sound matter-of-fact, but inside he felt overwhelmed. There was so much to do, and he still had to find that ring on Blood Island once he got there. Still, he gathered up his nerve as best as he could, thanked the priestess for his help, and departed. She seemed to look at him with a touch more respect as he left, though it might simply have been his imagination.   

No comment from Murray as he passed under the arch--the skull seemed to be daydreaming of evil days to come. Guybrush saw no need to disturb him as he headed towards town.    

About an hour later, he had determined that he was stuck. Plunder Island's capital city, Puerto Pollo, boasted Blondebeard's Chicken Shop, which he could not enter because he lacked a reservation; a lemonade stand run by a kid named Kenny Falmouth who offered a bottomless mug policy (it only seemed like a good deal, Guybrush discovered; the mug really was bottomless and the lemonade passed right through it); a community theater where a two-bit actor named Slappy Cromwell was rehearsing a truly awful version of Shakespeare--abridged beyond recognition into a 45 minute song and dance number called 'Speare; and lastly, the barber shop. The Barbery Coast was locally owned and operated by three retired pirates that Guybrush couldn't even consider "has-been's"--they fell safely into the category of "never-was."    

A sharp-looking pirate next to the door proved to be the legendary Edward van Helgen--"Not the--" Guybrush had exclaimed. "That's right..Mine is the name that pirates fear the most: Edward "Snugglecakes" van Helgen." Another, styling himself as Cutthroat Bill, was as shady a character as he had ever met in all his pirate adventures. He hoped never to meet Bill alone in a dark alley, although, since Bill had a peg-leg, he could probably outrun him. Bill was washing what was clearly a bloodstain out of a piece of cloth--Guybrush moved on as quickly as he could.    

The third of the trio was a large man with flaming red hair and a fashionable kilt. He was cutting the hair of a man who actually looked like a pirate--the Frenchman René Rottingham. He was too busy to chat, but Rottingham perked up his ears sharply as Guybrush tried to tell the barbers the story of Elaine the gold statue and the Blood Island diamond--too late, he bit his tongue and wished he hadn't said so much.   

But the worst moment of all was the hassle down at the Brimstone Beach Club.   

Slappy Cromwell had given him one lead--his agent, Palido Domingo, had frequently booked him for Blood Island (apparently it had once been quite the Mecca for up-and-coming actors) and so would probably know how to get there. He could probably be found down at the beach club southeast of town, so Guybrush went. For a moment, it all seemed to be going well--the cabaña boy monitoring the beach was perfectly friendly and helpful--but his friendliness dried up abruptly when he realized that Guybrush didn't have a membership. Then neither begging nor threats nor Jedi mind-tricks would persuade him to let Guybrush out onto the beach. Disgusted, he turned back towards town.   

There was one other place of interest in Puerto Pollo: an overgrown alley leading to a place called Danjer Cove. The entrance bristled with signs warning travelers to stay away--Guybrush would have bet his earring that this was where the Elaine-stealing pirates had retired. But the overgrown vines blocking the way were too strong for him to force his way through, and too rubbery to break.    

At length, he sat down on the edge of a fountain in the center of town (it was dedicated to the memory of the chickens who had given their lives in the Puerto Pollo Potluck Jamboree of 1621) and thought for a moment. He'd seen a pair of scissors in the barber shop--they were stuck fast in the ceiling over the barber chair. If he could somehow stand on the chair, he might be able to reach them--but Rottingham was occupying it, and it looked like his haircut might take a while.    

Guybrush examined his inventory--from a coat inside the theater he'd acquired a white glove and a handful of lice (he'd thought they were dandruff flakes and was trying to do the owner a favor)--from the same area he'd nabbed a magic wand and, by using it with a magic hat, had magicked up a book (to his great surprise). He had no clue how a beginner's guide to ventriloquism could be useful, but experience told him to keep it. In the barber shop, he'd slapped Bill companionably on the back and nearly caused him to choke on the jawbreaker he was eating--the offending candy had flown out at another slap and landed on the floor. He had no idea why he'd picked that up, but there it was. Add to that the stuff he'd picked up at the voodoo lady's house, the ember-on-a-stick, and some helium balloons he'd been carrying around with him since before he got lost at sea (though he couldn't remember why), and that was the sum of his assets. He had a few sketchy ideas about where he could find a boat and a map, but what about a crew? The more he considered the idea, the more his thoughts turned towards the Barbery pirates. They certainly had enough experience, and four people could manage a galleon so long as they didn't hit any violent storms.   

But can I put up with them for as long as it'll take to reach Blood Island? he wondered.   

Beggars can't be choosers, so a few moments later Guybrush re-entered the barber shop and asked each pirate what it would take for him to join hi s crew. As it turned out, quite a bit. van Helgen would serve only a Captain who was a gentleman and his equal--someone who could beat him in a duel. But first, this person would have to challenge him properly--giving him sufficient insults. Guybrush doubted that "How appropriate--you fight like a cow" would do. Cutthroat Bill wanted proof that his Captain could actually find treasure before he would sign on. Unless Guybrush could find some gold here on the island, Bill wouldn't even consider joining his crew.    

Stymied, he turned back towards the hair-cutting pirate--and suddenly had an idea how to get Rottingham out of the chair. He gathered up all the lice in his pocket, crept stealthily up, and infested the barber's comb as soon as he set it down. If the barbers here were anything like Dominique...   

They were. The barber pirate's eyes jumped from his head as he got a good look at the unsanitary comb. "Holy infestation!" he exclaimed in a Scottish brogue. "Ye've been infected with the Hair Demons! Sure as I'm standin' here, they're wriggling about yer scalp like a pack of wretched sea-lions!"    

Guybrush felt his own scalp begin to creep. "Good analogy."    

Rottingham, sensing danger, tried to protest, but the larger pirate drowned him out. "This calls for drastic action. I'm bringing in Old Ironsides." He seized all of Rottingham's hair in one hand, and drew a large sword with another--Rottingham stared at it in dread like a man at an execution--and cut off every hair of the unlucky pirate's head with a single stroke. Then, effortlessly, he hoisted him by his fine gold jacket, and sent him flying out the door.   

For the first time, one of these guys had done something that impressed Guybrush.   

Now the chair stood empty for his use, but first he wanted to see what it would take to get this pirate on his crew. Haggis McMutton, for that was his nickname (his given name was Heart Liver and Kidneys Boiled in the Stomach of the Animal McMutton), also wanted a Captain who could prove himself, this time in the time-honored contest of strength known as caber tossing. If Guybrush could toss a caber--a tree trunk--farther than Haggis could, the barber would join his crew. But having seen Haggis just toss out one of his own customers, Guybrush felt certain that he'd lose.    

But perhaps he could still get those scissors. "I sure could use a haircut," he said.    

"Have a seat, laddie," Haggis offered, "and I'll do you up with a fine coif."    

Guybrush took a seat gingerly--strange barbers made him nervous. The only thing he was really vain about was his hair; he had a proper pirate ponytail, and he liked it. Haggis put away the sword, took up his shears, and began carefully snipping--Guybrush suddenly realized that he was stuck. He couldn't reach the scissors from where he was sitting, nor could he get out of the chair. If he moved, Haggis might slip and cut off his ear. He was on the verge of telling the barber that he really didn't want a haircut after all, when he noticed how closely the barber was looking at a book on a table by Guybrush's feet--a hairstyling book. One page was being held down by a large rock against the ocean breeze coming in through the door. It occurred to him that if anything were to happen to that book...    

He reached out with one foot and kicked the cover; the paperweight rock jumped off the page and landed in his lap. He tucked it quickly out of sight, hoping Haggis hadn't noticed. The pages of the book began flapping, then turning themselves in the wind. The haircut ground to a halt.    

"Blast that ineffectual paperweight" muttered Haggis. "I'll have to go look for another one."   

"But what about my haircut?" protested Guybrush.    

"Keep yer skirt on, lad," advised Haggis, and disappeared out the back door.   

Guybrush reached down the side of the chair until he encountered a handle--he worked it, raising himself until he could reach the scissors. With a little twisting, they came free of the beam, and he lowered the chair back down just as Haggis returned, puffing and blowing, and sans paperweight. "There's not a single rock on this whole island" he announced. "I suppose I'll just have to eyeball your haircut."    

That was all Guybrush needed to hear. "I just remembered...I have another appointment."   

"Oh..and I was going to give you a French braid, too." Haggis' tone implied that he doubted his sincerity in the first place.   

Guybrush went back outside, bristling a bit about the remark on his ponytail. And what leg have you got to stand on, kilt-boy? he thought, making his way across town to the overgrown alley.    

His first attack on the vines only cut off a flower--ipecac, a helpful and informative plaque put up by the Plunder Island Naturalists' Society helpfully informed him. The flower was a purgative--it caused vomiting. Handy. Guybrush tucked the flower away, brandished his scissors, and got down to the serious business of bushwhacking.    

A while later, he'd cleared enough of a path for him to pass. The road to Danjer Cove was little more than an overgrown trail through the jungle at first, but it climbed a small rise and skirted the edge of a cliff. Guybrush wasn't at all afraid of heights, and the view was magnificent--far below, he could see the other side of Plunder Island and a small, sheltered cove with a waterfall--anchored off-shore was a pirate ship. The trail continued to climb until it reached an overlook, offering him an even better view, but to his disgust the natural beauty of the place had been spoiled by a pack of litterbugs. Sharp objects and unidentifiable junk littered the top of the rise, and signs abounded, mostly of the "No Trespassing" variety. But one large one, a warning yellow diamond, gave him pause: Caution: Snake Crossing. That made no sense--what possible harm could a snake do?    

Guybrush hadn't counted on a snake large enough to swallow him whole, but that's exactly what dropped out of a tree on top of him.    

He wound up more-or-less upright in the snake's stomach, suffering from anxiety and a touch of claustrophobia, but nothing worse than that. The python had decided to swallow him whole without bothering to constrict him first (which he might have survived but he couldn't be sure), and now, infuriatingly, had bedded down, waiting for its meal to digest. Guybrush was stuck in the dank darkness until he could find his way back out--or until the snake managed to digest him.    

He really wanted out of this snake. Alive.   

Guybrush forced himself to be calm--he was resourceful; surely he could find something that would get him out. Next to his right toe was some sort of bulge, so he bent over and examined it with his hands. It seemed to be a priceless Faberge egg, and underneath that were even more items--he grabbed everything he could find. It proved to be a diverse lot of material--the remains of an over-dedicated member of the Plunder Island Naturalists' Society, plus most of her breakfast, an old encyclopedia, a reservation for Blondebeard's, vacuum cleaner parts (made sense--Nature abhors a vacuum), old phone books, and the egg. But none of those items, interesting as they were, were going to get him out. The ipecac flower might work, but he'd have to mix it with something...    

He searched his inventory twice before he found something he thought might work--a flask of pancake syrup. It was insane, but he was willing to try anything..and he'd always heard it said "syrup of ipecac." He added the flower to the syrup dispenser, then reached up and dabbed a large amount on the back of the snake's tongue.    

Nothing happened for a second--then the stomach muscles around him contracted violently. The snake became violently ill--it gathered itself up until it was almost standing on its tail, then, with a convulsive heave that shook its whole body, it shoved him out. Guybrush tumbled through mid-air, head-over-heels, before making a nice soft landing in some wet sand.    

Correction. It was quicksand. And by the time he realized this, he was stuck fast--this really wasn't his day. What was more, as the heavy sand dragged at his pant legs, most of the interesting stuff he'd found in the snake was sucked into the bog. A very odd sensation.    

Guybrush held very still, trying not to sink any faster, and looked around. There was a vine dangling from a nearby tree that looked sturdy enough to hold his weight, but it was just out of reach. "Salvation vine (Arborvitae deus-ex-machina)" read the Plunder Island Naturalists' Society plaque. The vine in question was noted for its strength and its ability to grow anywhere except where most needed. He could certainly vouch for the latter.    

But this vine was almost where most needed--only a twig braced against the tree trunk held it out of the way. All he had to do was find some way to knock the stick down from where he was standing, and he could get out of the pit. But only the paperweight felt heavy enough to knock it out of the way, and he was afraid to throw it--if he missed, he would lose the rock. If only he had some way to drop the weight on the stick from above.    

He remembered his helium balloons and pulled one out--it felt strong enough to support the weight of the rock. He tied the weight to the end of the string and let go; it bobbed just below eye level, but hung motionless in the still air. Now, how to pop it from a distance? A thorn bush grew nearby (a pappapisshu bush, according to the P.I.N.S. plaque, named for a native word meaning "youch"). But again, if he threw a thorn, he couldn't be sure where it would go. The same was true of his voodoo pin.    

Some reeds grew nearby--Guybrush stretched out his arm as far as he could and pulled one out of the quicksand. The motion sunk him a little deeper into the pit, but he finally had a plan. He gritted his teeth and plunged a hand into the thorny bush, grabbing a thorn--two dozen more grabbed him. "Ah, pappapisshu!" he cried, pulling away with a thorn embedded in his palm. He worked it loose--"Well, I got the thorn..hope that was worth it," he muttered, examining his wounded hand.   

He blew gently on the balloon--for a frightening moment he thought it was going to drift out of reach, but it floated back (thank heaven for those unpredictable Caribbean tradewinds) and hovered precisely over the stick. Then Guybrush stuck the thorn in one end of the hollow reed, put the other to his mouth, and blew. His impromptu pea-shooter worked like a charm--the balloon popped, rock dropped, and he grabbed the salvation vine and pulled himself out.    

Guybrush walked very cautiously through the jungle to Danjer Cove, wondering what else might attack him on the way. But nothing further happened--he made it safely to the shore.    

The pirate ship was still anchored in place, but the only rowboat in sight had a gaping hole in the side. And those three sharks cruising the bay made swimming out of the question. Guybrush grumbled as he realized that, after all his work, he would have to just turn around and walk back to town.    

Halfway back, he noticed that his reservation to Blondebeard's had survived the quicksand incident--perhaps there was something in his shop that might come in handy. When he arrived back in town, he went inside.    

Blondebeard proved to be a colorful character in his own right--but he was in serious danger of going out of the chicken business due to the attacks of a monster. El Pollo Diablo, a seven-foot-tall demon chicken, had released all of Blondebeard's potential meals from their coops; as a result, all the salty chicken-fryer had left to offer were his tender, flaky biscuits. "Biscuits and More" said the sign over the barrel--Guybrush wondered what the "more" was.    

A moment later, he bit into one and found out--the thing was crawling with maggots. He drew back in disgust, but Blondebeard only laughed. "That be me special secret ingredient" he said. "It makes me biscuits come alive with flavor." Guybrush decided to let that one drop.    

The restaurant certainly seemed to have fallen on hard times--there was only one other customer in the place, and he hadn't said a word since Guybrush entered. For that matter, he didn't look like he'd said a word before Guybrush entered. Very reserved, for a pirate.   

"Hey, Mister" he stretched out a hand and tapped the quiet patron on the back. No response. He tapped harder--the pirate suddenly collapsed under his hand, slumping over onto the table. His hat fell off, revealing a skull underneath; it was one of LeChuck's skeletal horde!    

"Aye." This was from Blondebeard behind him. "I fixed his little red dinghy but good!" A bread knife protruded from the skeleton's back.    

"The undead which walk among us must surely be destroyed, lest their evil like overrun and befoul the world of the living" agreed Guybrush.    

"And he had the nerve to complain about me chicken!"   

He examined the chicken in question--it had been sitting for some time and was the most disgusting poultry he'd ever seen. The salty sea air had dried its skin to an impenetrable crust--if anything interesting lurked within, he'd never know about it.    

But just then the maggots escaped from the biscuit in his hand--they pounced, moving as one, on the chicken carcass and devoured it to the bones in seconds, then made a beeline (maggot-line?) back to the biscuit barrel. Guybrush could not quite repress a shudder.    

Lo and behold, something interesting was inside the chicken skeleton--a membership card to the Brimstone Beach Club. He drew it out, then seized the handle of the bread knife in the skeleton's back and worked it loose, adding it the collection of items already cluttering up his pockets. He was just about to leave the shop when he noticed something else.    

Blondebeard had a gold tooth--the first gold he'd ever seen on the island. And Guybrush had a jawbreaker.    

Putting on his best innocent face, he offered the candy to Blondebeard, hoping that the cook wouldn't notice the few stray hair clippings that clung to it. Luck was still on his side--Blondebeard popped the thing into his mouth without looking at it, then chomped down hard on it with a crunch that made all of Guybrush's teeth ache in sympathy. Perhaps this habit was the reason he had only two of his original teeth remaining.    

Blondebeard, unsuspecting, seemed satisfied with the devious jawbreaker. "Ahhh..." he sighed..."now I be wantin' somethin' chewy. This ol pirate's got a hankering for somethin' ta squish between his teeth."    

He could not have offered Guybrush a better opportunity. "Would you like some gum?" he asked, proffering the pack of Bit o'Jerky. Blondebeard, to his mild amusement, began blowing bubbles with his piece of gum--and in every bubble hovered the silhouette of the gold tooth! Guybrush took out his voodoo pin, waited for the next bubble, then popped it. Away flew the tooth across the floor; Blondebeard didn't seem to see any more in this than boyish mischief. "Ya little scamp!" he laughed, then turned back to his reservation book. As soon as his back was turned, Guybrush pounced on the lost tooth.    

He slipped the thing into his pocket and was quickly on his way. Back at the barber shop, Cutthroat Bill was a bit surprised to see him.    

"Check this out." Guybrush brandished the shiny gold tooth. Bill's narrow eyes went wide. "Well," he grudgingly admitted, "I guess you can find treasure, after all."    

"So will you join my crew?" Guybrush persisted.    

"Sure...if my partners will join, too."    

So...now he had one member of his crew. Maybe. But first he had to become stronger than Haggis McMutton, and more of a gentleman than Edward van Helgen. It might be easier just to swim to Blood Island..except that he still needed that map.    

Suddenly he remembered an old custom of insulting--he'd never known it to work except in stories, but it was worth a try. He pulled out the glove he'd found in the theater--and slapped van Helgen hard across the face with it.   

The dapper pirate actually brightened. "Now there's a challenge" said he. "To the field of honor!"    

Unfortunately, the duel was a disaster; they chose weapons, took the requisite ten paces, and van Helgen shot the pistol neatly out of his hand almost before he could turn around. That was a relief, in a way, because he'd been uncertain how to shoot a potential crewman without killing him--now he knew. Try to recruit someone who is a much better shot than you are, and the issue will never come up.    

But he had to have his second crewman. Once more, he challenged van Helgen.    

"Haven't I shamed you enough?" asked the taller pirate.   

"You haven't even begun to see me shamed!" answered Guybrush with as much spirit as he could, and so back out they went to the dueling strip.   

This time, Guybrush considered his potential weapons more carefully--three identical pistols and a..banjo? Well, that made an odd sort of sense--dueling banjos.    

"I choose the banjo."   

"I accept."   

He hadn't expected that. "You do?"    

van Helgen was good--Guybrush managed to keep up with him at first, matching him through a series of increasingly complex melodies, but when he truly exerted himself, wailing out chords such as no banjo ever made (and behind his back, too), Guybrush real ized that he could never beat him. So, in desperation, he walked off the field of honor to the gun pile, grabbed a pistol, aimed, and shot van Helgen's banjo.    

The other pirate stared at him in shocked surprise over the ruins of his instrument. "You...you shot my banjo!" And Guybrush, smoking pistol hidden behind his back, knew that he'd done the worst thing he could possibly have done, resorting to such a cheap trick instead of trying to beat van Helgen fairly.   

"I can't believe that you would do something so low! I completely misjudged you!" he ranted. Guybrush hung his head and waited for the inevitable.   

"You are a pirate, after all!" van Helgen finished. "I'd be proud to join your crew. I'll just pack this stuff up and get ready. And give me back my gun!"    

At least Guybrush's knees had the grace to wait until van Helgen had departed down the hill into town before giving out on him. But after only a moment or so, he prodded himself to his feet again, still hardly believing how well things had worked out, and took a look around.    

The field of honor sat above the city on a small hill--slightly higher than that was a grassy knoll. Marked on the ground was a pattern of numbered yard-lines in a strip perhaps two yards wide, like an extremely narrow football field. One either side of the strip were piles of palm tree trunks--Haggis' cabers, no doubt. None of them looked tossable.    

Near the strip were two rubber trees--one was the only one of its kind in the Caribbean, the other was native to the area (they looked identical to him). If he could find some way to cut one down and add it to his caber pile, he might have a chance to win the toss, since a rubber tree trunk bounces. Theoretically. And atop the grassy knoll was a keg of rum on a sawhorse. Rum burns. Explodes, actually--the ethyl alcohol in it is highly flammable. Theoretically.    

Time to put his theories into practice. He couldn't manually lift the keg into place, so he attacked the sawhorse with his bread knife until it gave way, sending the keg rolling down the hill to the base of the rarer rubber tree. It even left a convenient trail of rum behind, like a fuse. Guybrush pulled out his ember-on-a-stick and blew on it gently until it came back to life, then touched off the trail of rum.    

The resulting concussion blew him off the hill and onto the streets of Puerto Pollo below, but it also blasted the tree completely off its stump, dropping it neatly onto one of the caber piles. Sometimes these random things worked out so well that even he was amazed.    

Guybrush picked himself up when he could (it had been a hard fall) and made his way back down to the barber shop. Haggis immediately agreed to the trial of strength and the two of them climbed the hill again.    

He won, even though he could barely even lift his caber, let alone throw it. Haggis tossed his a respectable distance, but Guybrush's caber bounded, end over end, completely out of sight. Haggis' jaw dropped open. "By the spiraling bouffant of me great uncle McManus," he swore, "never before have I seen such strength!"    

Guybrush had done the impossible. He had recruited a crew.   

Meanwhile, off the coast of Plunder Island...two pirates were gathering in the spoils of the previous battle with gaffs. "Look at all this loot!" one exclaimed, hauling a chicken and a barrel of grog into the ship's hold. "Let's pull up anchor and set sail for Skull Island. King André'll pay through the nose for all this!"    

The other had seen something interesting below--a nice pair of boots, saved from the sea by a plank of wood. "Hmm...it looks like there's some kind of footwear down there..." he muttered, hooking them both neatly and pulling them up. "Nice."    

He tossed them into the hold with all the rest, failing to notice how they smoldered with a strange green light. Tragically, neither pirate sensed their danger, in fact, until the yellow flames came boiling out of the hold--and by then, it was far too late to save either of them. Their screams of pain and terror were drowned out by the demonic, yet horribly familiar, laughter of the undead, as the owner of those boots materialized once more on this earth before them...    

Guybrush went down to the other end of the island, to pay a highly enjoyable visit to his old friend at the Brimstone Beach Club. "Excuse me," he said casually, flashing his membership card.    

The cabaña boy's face assumed a look of utter dismay. "Oh no..." he breathed in a tone that suggested that something horribly unnatural had just happened.. "You've got a membership?!"    

Guybrush gave him a taste of his own attitude. "Yes. And now, I think I'll take one of your fluffy clean towels and go for a nice relaxing stroll down your beach."    

"Oh no! You mustn't!"    

He pretended to consider. "Then perhaps I'll stay here and tell you my life story."    

"Come to think of it," the cabaña boy hastily amended, "it is nice down at the far end of the beach. You should go there." A pause. "You should go there now."   

Guybrush went. Off in the distance, he could see a pale sunbather at the end of the sandy spit that was Brimstone Beach. He stepped out onto the sand--    

--and leaped into the air as the heat seared both of his feet. Hopping awkwardly from foot to foot, he danced back to the safety of the shade of a palm tree. His shoes were full of holes--the hot sand burned right through them to his feet. He needed to put something more between himself and the aptly-named beach.    

Back to the cabaña to pick up a few towels--three, to be precise. He dipped them in the ice bucket to insulate them with some water, then ventured back out to the beach again. He laid all three carefully down on the beach, then crossed in safety to the shade of another tree, though he could hear them hissing and sizzling on the hot sand. He turned around just in time to see them actually burst into flame.   

Yikes. But he had made it safely to the pale sunbather--Palido Domingo, he corrected himself, Slappy Cromwell's agent. His only lead on that map to Blood Island.    

"I'm Guybrush Threepwood" he said politely.    

The sunbather roused and raised his sunglasses. "I am Palido. Very nice to meet you, Mr. Threepwood," he said. "I'm so glad you're here."   

Guybrush was surprised..and gratified. "Finally, someone on this island with some manners."   

"Yeah..my drink needs refreshing. Take it away and bring me another."    

Obviously this guy mistook him for a waiter. Guybrush tried again. "I don't think you understand. I'm a mighty pirate."    

"I'm sorry, babe, I really sincerely am. Perhaps I didn't use the magic word. Take this drink away and bring me another...now."    

Well, this guy wouldn't be much fun to talk to. Guybrush changed the subject. "I'm looking for Blood Island. Do you know where it is?"    

"Nope. Never heard of it."    

"That's funny...that guy at the theater told me you booked all his shows there."    

"Slappy Cromwell--I should have known. If I booked that guy in a dinghy there'd be empty seats."   

"So you do know how to get to Blood Island!"    

"Yeah, yeah. It was the place to go before they moved the shipping lanes. I used to book so many gigs there that I had the map tattooed on my back. All those little yellow sticky notes kept getting lost."    

"Why did you lie and say that you didn't know how to get to Blood Island?"   

"I..I just don't want to say." But he didn't keep silence for long. "It's your face, babe." Guybrush was shocked by this thoughtless insult, but Palido hurried on. "There, I said it, babe..hope you can forgive me. I just gotta be honest. I just didn't think you were the right type for Blood Island. That's not some place I picture your career going right now. Let me get you a booking somewhere that's in your league. I can gig you at this little shoe factory in Hoboken--"    

"It's Blood Island or nothing" growled Guybrush.   

"If that's the way it's gotta be, babe, then that's the way it's gotta be." Guybrush really wished this guy would stop calling him "babe." "But you're going to have to find new representation, O.K.?" Palido laid himself back down to tan.    

Guybrush kept his temper under the double-insult, but in his mind he had decided that, whatever he had to do to get that map off Palido's back, it would be justified.    

And that mug on Palido's stomach just might enable him to kill two birds with one stone--he took it. Then he skirted around the hot beach by taking the back way, through a little gate, and made quick tracks into town to Kenny Falmouth's lemonade stand.   

Replacing the bottomless mug with Palido's whole one was almost too easy--Kenny wasn't proof against "Look! A three-headed monkey!" Then Guybrush extracted a little revenge--"I'd like to buy some lemonade, please." This time, he managed to get a full mug of the stuff, and it was delicious. Despite Kenny's moral shortcomings, he made fine lemonade.    

However, the failure of his mug scam so rattled Kenny that he stormed off, leaving Guybrush in possession of his lemonade pitcher as well. It gave him an idea--he filled the thing with red dye No. 2 from a nearby vat and returned to the beach. He set the bottomless mug back in its place on Palido's stomach, then refilled it from the pitcher, all the while acting the part of a humble waiter. The red dye spread across Palido's upper body, leaving him a brilliant pink.    

"Look! Palido! You're burning!" cried Guybrush in feigned alarm.   

Palido actually looked up. "Oh no!" he cried in much more genuine alarm. "All those months in the sun, and my tan's just going to peel away. I better turn over." So he did, exposing the most beautiful and complicated tattoo Guybrush had ever seen. It was a flawless map to Blood Island; but, he suddenly realized, useless to him. He had given no thought as to how he was going to remove the map, once he found it.    

He returned to the cabaña and espied the bottle of cooking oil on the bar. That might work, but he knew from experience that there was no way he'd be able to get it without first getting rid of that cabaña boy. He pondered for a moment, then tried the simplest thing he could think of--he snapped a wet towel at the back of the cabaña boy's legs.    

It must have really stung--the boy leaped up yelling "Pappapisshu!" and ran into the bushes. Guybrush listened to the crashing sounds of his retreat until they faded out of hearing--there was no sound of return movement. Nevertheless, he picked up the oil and got away from the scene of the crime as quickly as he could.   

Back to Palido. Guybrush really wasn't going to enjoy this next part, but it had to be done--he opened the bottle of oil and dribbled it liberally all over the tattoo. The skin on Palido's back--and the map--began almost literally to fry, with all attendant sound effects. Before his very eyes, the skin turned a brilliant, sunburned red and began peeling.    

Now for the truly disgusting part--he quickly grabbed the edges of the peeling map and pulled the entire top layer of skin away. It came off relatively easily--in minutes he had the entire map in his hands; on a backing of crispy, sun-dried human skin. Even though it was Paldio's thoughtless hide, he really wished there had been some other way to get his map.    

Meanwhile--"'Nice boots' eh?"    

"Sorry."   

"Hey...what d'ya know? I really am big-boned!"    

The two hapless pirates, now undead skeletons in the service of a new Captain, fell silent and stood rigidly at attention as he came on deck.   

"Came on deck" really wasn't the correct phrase--he blazed as a trail of fire across the deck, spiraled up the mast, and manifested inside the crow's nest. First a black skeleton burned in the unnatural flames, then threads of flesh appeared, then finally the zombie body of the dread pirate LeChuck appeared in all its horrible glory high above them. His eyes were all flame--so was his great, bushy beard, but otherwise absolutely nothing had changed. Especially not his obsession with Elaine.    

"Avast thar, ye lubbers!" he bellowed. "Set sail for my stronghold on Monkey Island. I'll unleash my entire army of the undead. This time, Elaine will be mine."    

The horrid creature almost smiled. "Ahh..Elaine. T'will be a sweet day in Hell when ye feel the fiery breath of my kiss upon yer lips and become my undead bride. And I'll destroy any man who dares get in my way!" The two pirates looked at each other and gulped.    

"Sufferin' sailors," proclaimed the ghastly zombie, throwing his arms wide as if to seize the entire world, "'tis good to be dead!!" And once more came that chilling, undead laugh.   

Just one more objective to accomplish before he could get off Plunder Island--he had to capture that pirate ship in the bay. What could he possibly use to repair that rowboat? Back at Danjer Cove, he tried every item in his pockets to see whether anything had a chance of working. The closest match was that half-eaten biscuit, which was the right size but the wrong material.   

Blondebeard had the biscuit cutter in his shop--Guybrush thought he remembered seeing it left out in plain sight. Once he arrived back in town, he saw that his memory was correct--the cutter was soon his.    

Now..for something to plug that hole. The rubber tree he'd spared on the grassy knoll came to mind--a quick climb and a slight desecration of a tree later, he had his rubber plug. For the umpteenth time, he made the trek back to Danjer Cove--luckily the large snake seemed to have associated "pirate" with "nausea" and left him alone.    

He fitted his plug into place on the rowboat--and it promptly fell back out again. But by now, Guybrush was taking such things in stride; he coated the plug with paste and pounded it back in. This time it held fast, watertight. He got in and rowed out to the pirate ship.    

No one was on deck, but an odd little man lunged out of the captain's cabin as soon as he heard the intruder's footsteps. He was the strangest creature Guybrush had seen in some time--he stood with his knees braced against each other, as though he'd be much more comfortable on all fours, and his eyes didn't quite focus on the same object. But he was brandishing a cutlass, which was enough to earn Guybrush's cautious respect--madmen were far more dangerous with swords than rational pirates such as himself.   

"Who're you?" he demanded.   

"I'm Guybrush Threepwood, and I want my girlfriend!"    

"Well..we'll just see how your threats sit with my Captain."    

"Your Captain?" Guybrush had assumed that this was the Captain.    

"Yes, Threepwood. You have come aboard the Sea Cucumber," sneered the wiry little man. "I'm Mr. Fossey," he gave an odd little chuckle, "the first mate. And my Captain? Why he's the scourge of the Seven Seas! The dread pirate LeCh-" he broke off, listening to something from the captain's cabin. "Yes, Captain" he responded to a query Guybrush couldn't hear, "it's on the table, sir."    

LeChuck?! Guybrush's blood froze.   

"That's right. Captain LeCh-" maddeningly, he broke off again, listening. "Just an intruder, sir. I'm dealing with him."   

Yet another listening pause. "He says you're to be tortured. Choose your punishment. You can either be tarred and feathered, or you can walk the plank."    

"Feathered sounds good--how about just feathered?" suggested Guybrush.    

"No. Sorry." Fossey paused again. "Well, I suppose we'll just have to go with walking the plank. We're trying to avoid using the tar," he added conversationally. "It's messy, and we need to save the tar for emergency leak repair."    

He gestured--suddenly a whole crew of monkeys appeared from the masts and rigging all around him, most wearing pirate hats and brandishing swords. "What do you say, men? Should we make him walk the plank?"    

The monkeys responded with a chorus of howls and chatters. Mr. Fossey motioned him to the end of the plank with his cutlass. "Any last words, Threepwood?"    

"I regret that I have but one life to give for love" declared Guybrush dramatically.    

"In ya go!" Guybrush nonchalantly stepped off the edge of the plank and landed in the rowboat.    

"That's odd.." said Mr. Fossey from above. "There was no splash..."    

"Splash!" yelled Guybrush from below. That seemed to satisfy him and his murderous crew--there was no more noise from above.    

Well, at least this explained why there were handprints in the sand around Elaine. Legends said that a man named Herman Toothrot once trained chimpanzees to sail a ship, so perhaps this Sea Cucumber and her monkey crew weren't so surprising. For that matter, Mr. Fossey looked a bit simian himself.    

Guybrush stood in the rowboat for a moment, pondering. He had to admit that he was out of his depth here--he knew next to nothing about capturing a ship. Normally, the attacker neutralized the ship's Captain, but in this case the Captain could be just a figurehead--or the dread pirate LeChuck himself. He had to get inside that cabin and find out.    

When Blondebeard had mentioned El Pollo Diablo, the devil chicken, he had said that the crew of the Sea Cucumber had ordered him to catch and prepare that noteworthy bird for dinner. That gave him an idea--but the more he thought about it, the less he liked it. It's probably going to be unpleasant at the very least, he thought. And what guarantee do I have that it'll succeed?   

It's for Elaine, said his heart.    

I might die trying to do this!   

If you die here, you can't very well die on Blood Island then, can you?    

He sighed. For Elaine, his mind agreed.   

Step one: Get rid of the plank. He brought out his bread knife and sawed off the piece of wood close to the side of the ship. Then he gritted his teeth and boarded again. It was a bit harder without the plank to cling to, but he managed. Then he walked boldly up to the captain's cabin and knocked on the door.   

Mr. Fossey appeared in the doorway as though spring-loaded, verifying Guybrush's conclusion that there was no other way into that room. "Again with the sneaking on board the ship!" The situation repeated itself--listening pauses, then relayed orders. Guybrush was beginning to suspect that there was no mighty Captain in that room at all. And, surprise surprise, due to technical difficulties or vandals, it wouldn't be possible for him to walk the plank again. They'd just have to haul out the tar and feathers.    

Next came the part he was dreading--suddenly large hands wrapped themselves around his face and he was lifted by his head high above the deck. A large monkey suspended him over the bucket of tar by his ponytail; he was so surprised at being seized from above that he barely had time to squeeze his eyes shut before the creature dunked him in the barrel. It was hot, but not as bad as he had expected, and oddly thin. It soaked his clothing and began a rapid invasion of his nose--up he came, gasping and sputtering, trying to get a breath of air before the monkey shoved him back under again. Finally he was deposited back on the deck--a second monkey ran up with a pillow and broke it over his head. Feathers flew everywhere. Guybrush held his breath, hoping he wasn't going to have an allergic reaction.   

"That'll learn ya!" sneered Fossey at the be-feathered and rather uncomfortable monster before him.    

Actually, being tarred and feathered hadn't been as painful as he'd feared, except that the drying tar was starting to itch. "So...what do I do now?"    

"Er...I don't know" Fossey admitted. "We've never done this before. Aren't ya humiliated?"   

Guybrush considered. "I guess so..but no more than usual."   

Fossey looked like he wished the Captain would come take over for him, but no comment from the cabin appeared to be forthcoming."Well..just get lost, then," he improvised.    

There really wasn't any more to be done here, anyhow. Guybrush got back in his boat and headed for shore. Back in Puerto Pollo, he headed for his second unpleasant destination--Blondebeard's Chicken--sneezing occasionally as one of the feathers tickled his nose.   

Up bounced the salty chef, beaming "Do ya have a reserv--" he stopped short when he got a good look at his uninvited guest. "Madre de Dios! Es El Pollo Diablo!" he cried, while Spanish guitars seemed to play in the background.   

"Yes!" declared "El Pollo Diablo." "I have released your prisoners, and now I've come for you!"    

But Blondebeard showed surprising pluck. "Well, you're not taking me without a fight!" And out of nowhere came a large frying pan onto the giant chicken's head. Guybrush saw a brief glimpse of the bottom of a cooking pot--then blackness.   

He woke up to find himself floating in chicken grease--incredibly tarry and feathery chicken grease. Somehow, it had washed away all the feathers. He wondered idly if Blondebeard had tried to cook him. At any rate, his luck had held; he was whole, alive, and exactly where he needed to be--over the rim of the pot he could see the inside of the captain's cabin.   

Fossey was sitting at a table--Guybrush watched in amazement as the first mate carried on an animated and apparently one-sided conversation with a disinterested ape, providing both his own words and the creature's responses.    

"What's that, Cap'n? You think I eat too much fried chicken? Well, fried chicken's just a weakness of mine, sir. I know you don't have any weaknesses, Captain LeChimp. You're an overachiever, a doer! While I'm just a tiny little fly..."   

If the Captain's an ape, Guybrush mused, then Mr. Fossey must be...   

"Aye aye, Cap'n! Fresh bananas for the whole crew!"   

..an utter loon.    

"You know, sir, finding that gold statue may be just the boost our crew needs" said Fossey conversationally, picking insects out of his Captain's hair. "With the riches we get from this, we can get new and better ships, and become the terror of the Caribbean!"    

Guybrush drew out The A-mmgh-C's of Ventriloquism. "Ahem," said LeChimp. "Mr. Fossey, I've been thinking..."    

"Are you all right, Cap'n?" asked the first mate. "You sound different.."    

"Don't interrupt!"    

"Oh, sorry, sir." Fossey went into a respectful salute.    

"Maybe it's time we gave up pirating" continued LeChimp's new voice. "I mean, take a look around, at me, the rest of the crew. We're all monkeys."    

Fossey looked confused. "You mean in the Darwinian sense, sir?"    

"No, I mean in the quite literal sense. Have you noticed that the crew is happier swinging from the masts than swabbing the decks? I don't even want to mention what they've been flinging around the ship--"   

"Are you suggesting that I'm not disciplining the crew enough?" The first mate sounded a bit hurt.   

"No, no..I'm suggesting that we all give up this charade and go back to the trees. That's the life for a monkey, not sailing the seas for months on end."    

"Well, if you feel so strongly about it, sir, I suppose I can't argue" said Mr. Fossey eventually.   

"I think our last order of business should be to dig up that statue, and--"    

Fossey had apparently stopped listening. "It'll be tough on the men, but I'll tell them that you think it best."    

Guybrush tried again. "Okay, but first we should dig up that statue and give it--"    

But the first mate had already walked out the door. He sighed and gave up. Anyhow, the map to Elaine was in that porcelain vase on the table. He leaped out of the pot, flinging chicken grease everywhere, and grabbed it. He detested the feel of porcelain, but he had to have that map.    

LeChimp was nothing--the Sea Cucumber was practically his, now. He paused only long enough to wring most of the grease out of his clothing (about a handful of it was touchingly attached to his left sleeve, so he left it there) before jumping out the window. He landed on the severed plank, which miraculously was still floating next to the ship. A trio of sharks immediately came cruising up--he made world-record Unassisted Paddleboat (paddleplank?) time back to shore, racing ahead of that deadly triplet of fins.    

His instincts told him that the monkeys would head directly for Slappy Cromwell and his theater--back in town, he saw that he was right. The seats were filled with wildly clapping patrons as a large bearded man in a pink dress (what man in his right mind would wear such a thing?) let out an enormous belch. "Pee-yew, Brute," declared Slappy. "Then fall Caesar!" The simians gave him a standing ovation--was this 'Speare's target audience? Guybrush just couldn't watch anymore; this mutilation of fine art was beginning to make him sick to his stomach. He retreated to the light booth.    

Inside, he saw banana peels draped over the controls and every spotlight within reach--the monkeys had been here before. In fact, if Slappy was such a draw to them, they must have been here before he started rehearsing--which was just after Elaine was stolen! He read over the treasure map--"With all eyes open, follow the path to the X." Following that was a string of compass points--northwest, southeast, and so on. He'd assumed they were directional, but perhaps they actually applied here, to the light board.    

On the board were eight buttons arranged in a circle around a blank center--if he assumed that the top of the board was "north," then this button must be northwest. He pushed it. And this must be southeast... He pressed the buttons in the indicated sequence, then pulled the lever next to them. The lights flickered and buzzed, but eventually all shut off except for two--and those two were making an X over a mound of earth that was supposed to be Yorick's grave, upstage center behind Slappy. That was it..that must be where Elaine was buried.   

Out on stage, Slappy was juggling three knives. He was good at it, but Guybrush really wished he would get offstage so he could dig Elaine up. A chest near the entrance was open--three cannonballs lay inside. The next objects of juggling, no doubt. He debated, then wrung out his sleeve over the balls, coating them with chicken grease. Then he hid, waiting to see what would happen.    

The result was chaos. The cannonballs flew out of Slappy's hands--one landed in the audience, one fell on the stage, behind him, and one hit the end of a loose board. Slappy was stading on the other end of said board--it projected him into the air and directly into the pirate in drag. Both vanished from sight into the black backstage area.   

Guybrush was pleased to see that the play had a happy ending--Slappy got the..girl?..in the end. Then he ran onto the stage, grabbed the prop shovel nearby, and started digging.    

If it hadn't been for Haggis' giant strength, they would never have gotten Elaine to the Sea Cucumber. Even as it was, it took all four of them, straining every muscle, to hoist her up the center mast and get her safely stowed up in the crow's nest. With her angry expression, she seemed to glare a challenge to the wheeling seagulls. This done, they cast off and Guybrush could not have been happier to see the last of Plunder Island.   

"I've got a map, a ship, a crew, and finally got Elaine back," he thought, glad to be back at sea and feeling more alive than he had in some time. "So what say we head on out to Blood Island? To lift the curse and save Elaine! How about it, guys?" he called to his crew. No answer. "Guys?" He turned around--they were all at the far end of the deck, huddled over the rail. Whether they were sight-seeing or being ill, it was impossible to say. At any rate, they were paying him absolutely no attention.   

"This might be more difficult than I first imagined," Guybrush said to himself, feeling oddly as though he'd said that before.