The Sea Cucumber ran before the wind for several days, heading west and making excellent time. Guybrush judged them about half a day's sailing short of Blood Island when the storm hit.   

Black clouds boiled up before them at sunset, rising like a wave and blotting out the last light of the day. It was every sailor's nightmare to be caught in a storm at night, but that was exactly what they were heading into. With every lantern lit, they plunged into darkness--the only other source of illumination was the purple lightning that forked down at them.  Then the rain came, hard and driving, and finally the wind.  The end of the calm came with such shocking suddenness that Guybrush was caught unprepared when the wheel spun and twisted out of his hands like a fish. He grabbed it and forced it back into place, but it took almost everything he had.  

"We've got to keep her on course for Blood Island!" he shouted. They were running far too fast into the swells--if they hit one too hard, they might capsize. "van Helgen?!" he yelled up at that worthy who had climbed up the mainmast to bind the sails.  

"I'm doing all I can here!" van Helgen called back. He was perched precariously on a cross-beam, yanking futilely on a piece of the rigging. "Haggis!! Lend a hand!"   

"I'm barely holdin' on m'self, mate!" came the reply from somewhere midships. Guybrush forced an eye open against the wind to see his first mate desperately trying to keep his kilt down. "By God, this wind..she's the devil's own!"  

The worthy ship rode the surging waves like a swan--above them Guybrush thought he could see the edge of the storm. If they could hold out for a little longer, they'd be through and back on clear water. But just then a giant swell rose, obscuring all his forward vision, and when they rose to the top of it--   

--there was Blood Island. The wind that had borne them all this way was driving them right into it.  

Impossible to turn or stop..the pace of the world slowed to a crawl..Guybrush thought he screamed but he wasn't sure. Then the island leaped up to greet the doomed ship, he felt himself pitch forward into the wheel, and the horrible sounds of the Sea Cucumber breaking up drowned out whatever noise he might have made after that...   

He came back up out of the darkness to the unfamiliar sound of hammering. He was sitting in the sand of a strange beach, next to the hopelessly grounded wreck of the Sea Cucumber. She was still mostly intact, but holes gaped in her hull all along her sides--it would take a long time to make her seaworthy again. But his crew was already trying--Haggis had set up a makeshift table and was looking over the ship's blueprints, and van Helgen and Bill were already aboard and working. van Helgen was the source of the hammering.   

The crow's nest was empty. "Where's Elaine?" was Guybrush's first question.   

"She flew a wee bit into the woods when we crashed," responded Haggis, scarcely looking up.   

"Then let's get going. We'll find her, then scour the island for the uncursed diamond ring that'll transform her back to normal."   

Haggis looked uncomfortable. "I...don't be thinkin' we will, lad."   

"What do ye mea--err...what do you mean, Haggis?"   

"This be a mutiny, Cap'n. We're leaving ya."  

Despite himself, Guybrush felt a little hurt--perhaps a Captain might have one crew mutiny, but two? He didn't know of anyone who else had managed that--and it didn't do much for his self-esteem. "But why, Haggis?" he asked "Why?"  

The red-haired giant looked uncomfortable. "Well, I admit that bein' your pirate crew's been a real pleasure..a real pleasure. But we've grown restless. We can hear the voice of the Siren callin' tae us, and she says she be wantin' us ta do her hair."   

"You're going back to being barbers!?"   

"Aye..." Haggis looked his former Captain in the eye. "We'll be sailing for Plunder Island just as soon as we can fix the ship. Good luck, Cap'n Thriftwood. It were a pleasure ta be lootin' with ye."  

I guess I'm on my own again, thought Guybrush. He was actually going to miss this unlikely trio, despite all his former misgivings, but try as he might, he couldn't change their minds.  

Well, he would find Elaine first and make sure she was all right, then perhaps he could come up with some plan.   

He discovered his girlfriend in a clearing not far from the shipwreck, almost on display. She gleamed in the light of a swarm of fireflies, standing in the furrow of torn earth she must have caused when she landed. She appeared to be unharmed.   

"Hang on, honey!" he said to the statue, though he doubted she could hear him. "I'm going to get you out of this mess!"   

That accursed cursed ring was still on her finger--now seemed to be the right time to remove it. He seized it (he was just lucky she hadn't closed the fingers of her left hand before she turned into gold) and tugged, but it was stuck fast. Without some sort of lubricant, it would never come free. Haggis'd had a bottle of hand lotion next to him, he recalled--perhaps he could borrow some.  

Back down he went. "Um..Haggis?"   

"Yes?"   

"My, that's a big bottle of lotion you have there."   

"That's right she be, and don't ye be gettin' any ideas 'bout stealin' it. We're sure to be needin' it, ya see. Carpentry in this tropical climate can and will prematurely age yer skin. 'Tis but one of the many hardships a pirate must face daily during this barbarous age. Aye..and if we pirates didn't carry hand lotion aboard all our ships, we'd probably die from the chafing."   

"There's no way that I can have even a drop of lotion?"  

"Well...maybe we could make a deal. Ya see, we need to be repairin' the ship. She's leaky as a colander. And for some unknown reason, the ship's supplies o' tar have been depleted." Guybrush knew quite well how that had happened. "How the previous crew could set sail without any tar aboard eludes me. But the fact is that unless we get some tar, or somethin' like it, we're doomed to this island for good. Aye, I'd give you the whole bloomin' bottle of lotion if you could find me somethin' to patch the ship so we can be on our way home."   

A tar substitute..just to get Elaine's ring off. If only he'd never put it there in the first place! Oh well..nothing worth having ever came easy. He turned to go, but not before he noticed that bottle in the sand. It didn't contain anything as prosaic as a message, but it was nonetheless a nice bottle of Cap'n Nick's Shaving Soap. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and pocketed both.   

The island, Guybrush discovered as he explored, was a volcano, surmounted with a large caldera that smoked and glowed brightly. And, for the place that would be his death, it was remarkably beautiful in the moonlight. It boasted a lighthouse (extinguished--if it had been lit, they might not have crashed), a windmill that was charming with the full moon rising behind it, some sort of village perched dangerously on the very shoulder of the volcano cone, a cemetery with an accompanying work area, and in the very center of it all, a large building of unknown purpose. It was conspicuous because of its size--and because it was decorated with garishly multi-colored Tiki lanterns. He walked through a covered patio filled with tables, all put away for the night with their chairs stacked on top, past an odd cooking pot set over a stone channel, and a stage that was nearly destroyed. This must be the site of Slappy's risky and daring dinner theater, but it appeared to have fallen into disuse.   

Inside the lobby of what proved to be a hotel, things were just as run-down and abandoned. The sole occupants were an old fortune-teller--"Madame Xima" read her card--and a bartender who was slumped over the bar, very hung-over. She must really have been bored--he'd never seen anyone try to play solitaire with a Tarot deck before. Grog ads abounded--one of them was a picture of a woman who slightly resembled Elaine, another was a neon sign, where a neon pirate was disemboweled by his grog-drinking opponent's neon blade. Another oddity was a nacho machine--the rubbery cheese had congealed long ago into a solid mass. Guybrush suddenly had an idea about Haggis' tar substitute.  

He walked over to Madame Xima's table, wondering what she might know about the ring he was looking for. "I feel a dark presence coming over me.." she muttered as he approached.   

"Hi there!" greeted Guybrush.   

"AAaaaaaAAaGH!" she screamed. "Ahhhhh" groaned the bartender. "Please...keep it down! No screaming...Ohhh my head..."   

Well, that certainly was a new reaction. "Hi, I'm Guybrush. And you would be..?"   

"I am Madame Xima," said Madame Xima. "Mistress of the ancient arts of precognition and augury. Diva of divination."   

"Cool! You're a fortune-teller."   

She sighed, apparently feeling under-appreciated. "That..and so much more."  

Guybrush wondered how accurate she was--and he suddenly wanted to hear something to throw off the voodoo priestess' foretelling of his death. "Tell me my fortune."  

"I...do not think you wish to hear" she hesitated. "There are things of which a man is better off being ignorant."   

"But I'm already ignorant of so many things! I want to know my future!" pleaded Guybrush.  

She was adamant. "No. You are not meant to know."   

Okay...he would just have to try another approach. "I bet you just can't do it. That's the problem. You can't do it, and you're afraid everyone will find out that you're just a phony."   

She fixed him with a sharp glance. "You know..I could put a curse on you that would make every morsel of food you eat become a ravenous cockroach inside your intestines," she informed him, "giving you the most excruciating death imaginable."   

He pretended not to understand. "Sooo...are you going to tell me my fortune or not?"  

"I'm not kidding!"  

He decided not to make this woman too mad. "Okay, okay."  

But he still wanted some reassurance. "What's in the cards for me? Fame? Fortune? Romance?"  

Madame Xima sighed again. "Very well. We will consult the cards." She shuffled them through her hands. "The process of reading the Tarot is a very complex one. Each draw of the cards foretells an upcoming event in your life. When assembled, they wil l tell the story of your future...a future filled with twists and--" and she slapped a card down on the table. A card with a skull's face.   

"AaaaaaAAgh!!"   

"Good lord, woman.." this from the bartender "..stop that screaming!"  

"What is it?" asked Guybrush, a little worried. "Is that a good 'aaaaaagh'??"   

"It is DEATH" pronounced Madame Xima in horrified tones.  

"But...in the Tarot 'death' just means...'change,' right?" Xima's bulging eyes gave no reassurance. "I mean...it's nothing to get worried about, right?"  

"Umm..yes..sure..whatever you say." Her tone implied that she was willing to let him believe that particular falsehood. "Now please, go."  

He wanted a better omen to leave on than death. "There must be some mistake. Read my Tarot cards again."   

"There is no mistaking your fate, Guybrush. The card do not lie. But, if you insist..." Another card was drawn. It was a duplicate of the first. "Once again, it is DEATH."   

"I'm feeling luckier" he persisted. "Give me another Tarot reading."   

Yet another skull. "The card says DEATH."   

"Are you sure you're not dealing from the bottom of the deck?"   

She glared. "Remember that curse I told you about?"   

"Okay, okay."   

He tried again. "Hit me."  

"DEATH."   

"How many of those cards do you have, anyway?" wondered Guybrush.   

Surely one more card would show something more hopeful. "How about giving me one more Tarot reading?"  

Her eyes begged him not to keep asking. "This is evil work, Guybrush. The fates have conspired against you--and no man can intervene. Your path has been determined!"   

"Okay..I get your point. I really do. Just one more time." He gave her his best puppy-dog eyes. "For Guybrush."   

She gave in. Down flashed her hand--and the too-familiar skull face was revealed. "Let me guess..DEATH?" queried Guybrush without too much curiosity.   

Madame Xima fixed him with a penetrating, one-eyed stare. "Leave this place."   

"Huh?"   

"You are putting us all in grave danger! Your very presence will bring us nothing but sickness, tragedy, and death!"   

"Oh, yeah? Well, I.."   

"Demon!" she yelled at him, making a sign to ward off evil. "Demon!"  

There on the table lay five Death cards..possibly a macabre souvenir, or an amazing hand at poker. "Look..a three-headed monkey!" he pointed behind Madame Xima.   

She gasped. "Then the prophecies were true!" He gathered up the cards and pushed them into one sleeve. "Where? I don't see anything."   

"He must've run away," suggested Guybrush innocently.   

"This is a very bad omen..." she responded darkly.   

He figured Madame Xima didn't want much to do with him any more, so he tried to start up a conversation with the bartender. No use..the man was severely hung over. "Find something to clear my head and I can talk to you" he moaned. "And keep it down!"   

A recipe book stood on the bar--Guybrush thumbed through it until he found what he was looking for; a hangover cure. He read it through cautiously at first, but this one required nothing more grotesque than an egg, a pepper, and the hair of the dog that bit ya--he'd seen far worse in his pirate adventures. But that last gave him pause--and as it turned out, the bartender wanted it literally. Guybrush eventually coaxed a dog--Old Blind Pew, who lived behind the cemetery--into biting him with the remnants of Blondebeard's biscuit, found an egg in a nest in a tree, and plucked a pepper from a plant next to the windmill. He also purloined a mallet and chisel from the work area behind the cemetery--they had been used to carve tombstones, but they would also serve his purposes.  

Back to the hotel to return his finds to the bartender. "Thanks," he whispered. "Now let me just..quietly..mix up a dose." All three went into a shaker--he poured the resulting concoction into a glass (Guybrush noted with disgusted interest the dog hairs floating in it) and poured that directly into his open mouth. For a moment nothing happened--then his face went through a series of indescribable but most interesting contortions, and then he sprang upright with a violent lurch, tendrils of smoke emerging from his ears. "Ahhh...much better." He picked up a rag and began wiping glasses with every sign of full recovery.   

"You can take the rest" he told Guybrush, pouring the remainder into a bottle and plunking it down on the bar next to him. Guybrush knew better than to drink enough to get hungover (at least, not right now), but he accepted it. Then he set about getting his answers.  

Griswold Goodsoup, for that was his name, was more than willing to talk about his family's lost diamond ring--and a sad story he told, too. His great-aunt, Minerva Stronheim-Goodsoup (Minnie Strone to her friends) had been a young woman of class and society, but with an incurably romantic nature--and one day she fell for the wrong man. He was a dashing young pirate come to port, she was besmitten, and they were engaged within the week. But her soon-to-be-groom turned his coat on the very evening of the wedding--he pried the Goodsoup diamond from her engagement ring and ran to nearby Skull Island, selling it to smugglers there. Minnie died not long after of a broken heart, still wearing the empty band. She was buried in it, and, Griswold confided, some say that her troubled spirit still haunts the Goodsoup family crypt.   

And to make things worse, the fortunes of the family seemed to have turned not long after her death--the Goodsoups' initial source of wealth, their all-soup restaurant-resorts, had fallen into disrepair and out of popularity. The half-abandoned Blood Island building in which Guybrush now stood had once been their flagship hotel--if this was any evidence of how the rest were going, the Goodsoups had fallen on hard times, indeed. Guybrush remembered Pallido's remark on the moved shipping lines and wondered if that might be the cause--but as it turned out, the cause of the decline was something he could never have predicted.   

The volcano. Mt. Acidophilus had once been famous for its regular eruptions--every evening at seven, the flows had come down the mountain towards the hotel, to the delight of its patrons. And the Goodsoups had harnessed its power in a unique way--they built that stone channel he had noticed on his way in to send the lava safely past them--and had set a barbecue over it. Dinner and theatre all in one act--the customers loved it. And so, when the eruptions suddenly ceased, so did the reservations.  

Whatever could stop the regular eruptions of a volcano? Guybrush was still mulling this over as he explored the rest of the hotel.   

Inside the lobby was a small back room--it seemed to be doubling as a pantry and storage closet. There was nothing in there except a filing cabinet for the Goodsoup family files, an old refrigerator with a magnet on it that read "Big Whoop," and an enormous round of nacho cheese. The stuff was far too old and rubbery for him to break with his hands, but it was no match for his chisel. He hacked out a large chunk of the stuff and hid it in his shirt. If the volcano happened to erupt while he was here, he could use the barbecue pot to melt it. Meanwhile, he still had to find Minerva Goodsoup and get her band, then get out to Skull Island somehow, and recover the diamond from the smugglers once he got there. He sighed. It was going to be a long night.   

"Hypothetically.." he asked Griswold casually, "how would one get into your aunt's tomb?"  

"Well, I suppose one would have to die" answered he after a moment's thought.  

Yet another omen of death. "Oh, crud."   

He went upstairs--the second floor was a narrow hall lined with pictures with windows at both ends. It was the Goodsoup Hall O' Portraits, a veritable family tree in pictures. Most of them, even the women, regrettably, had a strong resemblance to Griswold. There were also two doors--the one closest to the stairwell had a decorative porthole in it, the one farther down the hall was locked tight. Inside the porthole room was covered furniture and a small pile of portraits with dust cloths over them--old pictures of the van Salad family. And he 'd thought the Goodsoups were a strange-looking bunch.   

A nail had broken through the drywall over his head, point facing him. Dangerous. Guybrush lifted his mallet and gave it a sharp tap--which drove it all the way through the wall. There was a crash from outside--he went out and discovered that the nail had been holding up one of the pictures, which now lay on the floor in a broken frame. Feeling a little guilty, Guybrush hung the painting--a distinguished white-haired gentleman--up on the porthole door as well as he could, then used the magic wand to zap the frame out of existence. He was no artist, but he thought it looked rather nice up there.   

"I'd like a drink, please" he said to Griswold, back on the ground floor.   

"Sure. What will you have?"   

Apparently that under-21 rule didn't apply here. "Give me something to clear my sinuses."   

"One grog-and-menthol, coming right up." Griswold slammed a drink onto the bar with bartender-esque abandon.   

"Hey! Don't I get one of those decorative umbrellas to go in my tropical drink?" Guybrush felt a bit gypped.   

"Ummm..." apparently Griswold didn't get many requests like this. "I don't think we have any--no, I'm wrong. I do have this one.." and he put a full-sized indigo umbrella into the mug. Guybrush took it out, folded it up (bad luck to open one indoors) and tucked it into his largest pocket. He had the feeling he was being humored, but it was a nice umbrella. As he put it away, it clinked against the bottle of Head B Clear.   

That brought something to mind--he picked up the recipe book again and returned to the appendix. Down at the bottom he saw what he was looking for.."Alcohol-sensitive patients: Consult a physician before using. Do not mix with alcohol before operating rudders or other heavy machinery. Causes extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, (continued on the next page) extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme, extreme drowsiness." Which was as much to say, "It'll floor ya."   

Which meant that, once again, he had another unpleasant choice to make. If he looked dead, he might be buried in the Goodsoup's tomb, which meant that he'd be able to get the ring. And that would satisfy the dire predictions of Madame Xima and the voodoo priestess, who might not have been able to tell feigned death from the real thing. Unless this was the real thing. If he died-in-fact, who would look after Elaine while he was gone? On the other hand, if he didn't try this, he might never be able to free her before someone else, possibly LeChuck, found her. And time was running out while he was debating.   

Guybrush hesitated a few more minutes, while Griswold gave him a few odd looks, but he knew his mind was already made up. He chiseled open the bottle (darn child-proof caps) and added just a little of the stuff (dog hairs and all) to his drink. "Skoal!" he saluted the bartender, then drank it down.  

To his immense relief, he felt no different after consuming the spiked drink. "That's odd," he remarked to the room, which was playfully turning all sorts of pretty colors. "It's supposed to cause drowsiness. I don't feel the least bit drowsy." The bar, midway through a change from lime green to bright magenta, seemed to agree. "In fact I feel...in fact I...feel.. .normal..." He was still feeling normal when the room decided to stand on its head, and he found himself looking directly at the ceiling. Silly ceiling, was his last coherent thought before the colorful landscape faded to a boring gray, then nothingness.  

He opened his eyes on more blackness--blackness which filled with tiny white specks and he lunged upward and smashed into something hard over his head. The nothingness threatened to return, but he lay very still, and the moment passed. Cautiously he raised a hand and explored the small area in which he found himself--narrow, rectangular, wooden..now what was he doing inside this--  

--coffin. He was buried alive. For all of two seconds he panicked--I'm trapped I'm suffocating I'm underground and no one knows that I'm alive in here--but then he saw dim light coming in through the seams of the casket. He pulled out his chisel and wedged it into one of them--in a few moments he was free. Shaking a bit from reaction, he held onto the sides of the wooden box and looked around.   

This wasn't the Goodsoup crypt. It looked like a scene out of a nightmare--one of the proverbial boneyards--skeletons and coffins were piled everywhere, with no respect for their dead owners. He'd been just thrown on the top of the stack with all the others, no rites and no dignity--what a way to spend eternity.  

Thump thu-thump thump. He jumped--where was that tell-tale pounding coming from? His heart gave an odd little leap when he realized that it could only be coming from within one of these coffins. Now he was really unnerved; he had been buried alive and now he was locked in among the dead--and they were trying to tell him something. They must know my horrible secret, he paced the floor anxiously. Thump thu-thump thump. If anything, it was getting louder. They'll never let me rest until I've paid for the wrongs I've comitted against--wait a second. I don't have a horrible secret.   

His rational mind having thus reasserted itself, he looked around quickly--the knocking was coming from a coffin in the center of the room. "Go into the light!" he told its occupant. Thump thu-thump, it answered.   

Well, something was alive and moving in there--like it or not, he would have to let it out. He went around to the far side of the coffin and pried the nails loose with his chisel, then he reached out to lift the lid of the coffin--  

--when it moved. This time Guybrush actually sprang a couple feet into the air--when he came down, he was facing ...Stan? The used-galleon salesman turned used-coffin salesman was standing in the Blood Island crypt--still sombreroed, still plaid, with arms waving as wildly as usual--while the astonished Guybrush could only stand and stare. "Whew! I'm glad to finally be out of that thing," Stan declared in his perfectly-pitched salesman voice. "Even though it was a spacious, comfortable model with plenty of leg and head room. Well, hello there!" he seemed to notice Guybrush for the first time. "Say, you look familiar.."   

He was indeed; he and Stan went a long ways back together--though he'd thought their relationship was over when he'd nailed Stan in one of his own used coffins. "Uhh...yes, well..." he temporized.   

"Of course! Guybrush Threepwood! You're the one who locked me in there in the first place!"   

"Well, you see, I'd been meaning to.."  

"No, no, I won't hear of it" Stan oozed. "That was the best time of my life! Gave me plenty of time to think, ya know? About the things that really matter." Now his tone became fatherly. "I don't know if you've considered this, son, but live burials are not an altogether uncommon experience here in the Caribbean."   

"I...wasn't aware of that." Guybrush thought he was handling the situation rather well, all things considering.   

Stan's face was a mask of avuncular concern. "Not to mention pirate raids and deadly sea battles, huge man-eating reptiles, dangerous quicksand pits, trigger-happy duelists, and, of course, those pesky undead. Have you ever thought of what would happen to your loved ones should this gruesome fate befall you?"   

Come to think of it, all of those gruesome fates had befallen him. "Well, no, but--"  

"Well of course not!" Stan broke in. "You've got plenty of time--OR DO YOU??" His tone was downright sepulchral. "I'm one of the lucky ones. I've been dead. It's given me a whole new perspective on life--a life that I'm going to devote to making sure people's life insurance needs are met."   

This whole build-up was just to sell him a life-insurance policy? "Here--take one of my business cards I've had made up."   

Guybrush took the card. "If you've been locked in that coffin, how were you able to have business cards made?"   

"Now's not the time to worry about the technicalities, son" Stan glossed right over that little detail. "Now's the time to ask yourself, 'Are you covered?' Run along now, and let me set up my office, hmm?"   

This was getting way too absurd. "We're trapped in here," Guybrush pointed out. "The door's locked!"   

"Nonsense! This is one of Stan's Kozy Krypts, all equipped with a patented Secure-Lok release mechanism." As Guybrush continued to stare at him as though he were off his nut, Stan added "Just jiggle the handle there."  

Guybrush jiggled--and the door opened easily. He breathed in the fresh night air with immense relief, then started for the hotel. He glanced back at the sign over the crypt from which he'd emerged--"Blood Island Municipal Housing for the Deceased." It figured.   

Once inside the lobby, he had the instant attention of both Griswold and Madame Xima. "Hi, guys!" he greeted, glad to have an audience for once. "I guess you're wondering how I happen to be back from the dead." They were silent--obviously waiting to hear more--or utterly disinterested. "No questions for the dead guy come back to life?" Silence. Guybrush felt his enthusiasm melting away. "No questions like 'Is there life after death?' or 'Is there a heaven?'" More silence. "''Will there be adequate parking?'" Not a flicker of interest. "Fine! Be that way! I wouldn't tell you about the hereafter if you begged me!" Guybrush hated losing an opportunity to tell a good story, but he knew enough to accept the inevitable.   

He went up to the bar. "I thought if I died, I'd be buried with your aunt."   

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Griswold looked down his prominent nose at him. "You can't be buried in the Goodsoup family crypt unless you're a member of the Goodsoup family."  

"Member of the family, eh...?" muttered Guybrush, thinking quickly. "Uncle Griswold, it's me! Don't you recognize me?"   

"Recognize you? I've never seen you before in my life. What is your name?"   

Err... "Vegetable."   

"Vegetable?"   

"I'm from California."   

"Hmm...I don't recall having any relatives by that name."   

"Look at me! Don't I look just like a Goodsoup?"   

That backfired. "No, you don't look much like a Goodsoup at all. In fact, you look more like one of the Brothschilds--they always did have weak features."   

Guybrush didn't know whether or not to feel offended. "Are you sure?"   

"Of course I'm sure! Every day I wander the Goodsoup family hall of portraits and give my respects to each of my distinguished ancestors. Every distinguishing mark of the Goodsoup family is there, in those pictures--and I see nothing in any of those portraits that might remind me of you."   

Guybrush went back upstairs with a germ of an idea--and it came to pass that, as Griswold paid his daily visit to his ancestors, his great-grandfather's portrait, hanging on the door, looked a little different. The shock of blond hair and the long nose were features he could never remember C. Lambert Goodsoup having before. "That's funny," he remarked to himself. "I don't remember Grandfather Lambert as looking so...so common." The frowning face seemed to watch him. "Weird...it's like his eyes follow me. Pictures like that really creep me out."   

Once he was gone, back down the stairs, Guybrush withdrew his face from the porthole window, out of which he'd been able to look through the portrait through a hole he'd cut in the face. His eyes were dry from holding them open so long, but he'd accomplished his mission. Feeling pleased with himself, he went back downstairs.   

"Now that you mention it," Griswold replied in answer to his repeated query, "you do bear a slight resemblance to my great-grandfather C. Lambert Goodsoup."   

"Clammy? Why, folks back home used to tell me all the time, 'You're the spitting image of ol' Chowder Goodsoup.'"   

"You know, I think you're right! I wonder why I didn't see it before."   

But it seemed that it would take more than just a resemblance to fool Griswold. Guybrush decided that it was time to investigate the locked upstairs room. He pulled out Stan's helpfully laminated business card and went to work on the lock--to his mild surprise, it opened. I must be better at this pirating thing than I thought.   

Inside was a Murphy bed--the kind that lie flush with the wall when put away, but pull down at night. Guybrush pulled it. On the bed lay a skeleton in a rather nice tuxedo, with a book across his lap.   

I bet his room charges are pretty hefty by now, was Guybrush's irreverent first thought. It wasn't hard to see what had happened--the bed had simply closed up with him inside. What a way to go. He could see how it could happen--the bed was on such strong springs that the moment he let go, even for an instant, it sprang back into place. Already there was a gaping hole in the wall, boarded-over, where the bed had slammed into the plaster hard enough to break it. But it was a shame that he couldn't reach the book, because it was none other than the Goodsoup family history. He'd have to find some way to hold the bed down.   

He had one nail from the portrait on the wall and four more which had held his coffin shut. He held the bed down with one foot while he drove the five nails into place. The bed resisted, but stayed put. Guybrush picked up the book--interestingly enough, it was open to a photo-spread of Minerva Goodsoup, and went back downstairs.   

"I could just talk about Goodsoup history all day" he informed the bartender.   

As he'd figured, that interested Griswold. "How about that first fateful journey made to the Caribbean?"   

Guybrush, armed with the history book, was ready to answer. "Oh...you mean the one that Baron Salmon Bisque deGoodsoup made in 1621?"   

He sensed gratified surprise from Griswold. "Exactly! He landed on Scabb Island with just a spoon and a dream. In just four short years, he had formed the largest chain of all-soup restaurants in the western hemisphere. By 1635, he had driven the entire van Salad family out of the Caribbean, and had a restaurant empire that spanned the globe!"  

"Actually, the van Salads weren't driven out until 1673," Guybrush felt compelled to point out. "And the Goodsoup chain of restaurants and resorts never did become popular in the South Pacific."   

"Ehyes...well.." The bartender looked a bit deflated, but was still honorable. "Well, son, it looks like you were right. Welcome back to the glorious name of Goodsoup!"   

"I'm..honored," Guybrush managed.   

"And, as a Goodsoup, you're welcome to every benefit the name provides--instant prestige around Blood Island, a ten-percent discount in any of the Goodsoup resorts in the Caribbean, and of course medical, dental, and a 401K. And the best thing of all--if you should happen to drop dead, you will be buried in the extravagant Goodsoup family crypt!"   

"It's as though all my dreams have come true" deadpanned Guybrush, but half-meaning it.  

Well, now to drop dead. He ordered another drink, added slightly less of the Head B Clear (after all, he didn't actually want to die), and drank it quickly. This time he was dimly aware of falling over, that his eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling, and that his tongue was hanging out of his mouth. But most importantly, he heard Griswold saying "It is my solemn vow...my dear Vegetable Goodsoup shall be buried in the Goodsoup family crypt!"   

All right! thought Guybrush, and slipped away.   

Getting out of this coffin was a little more of a struggle--he had to chip away most of the heavy stone lid, like a bird breaking out of an egg, before he could get out. But once free, he found himself in a luxurious stone house, filled with sad stone angels bending over bowls of stone soup, and the respectful haunting silence of the dead all around him. And, of course, the door was locked. But he was actually starting to get used to this being buried alive business.   

The grilled door was the only nearby source of light--walking deeper into the crypt was also to walk deeper into gloom. When he reached the small plaque at the base of another stone angel, he could barely read it--"Sacred to the Memory of Minnie "Stronie" Goodsoup."   

A skylight above provided some starlight--just enough to see the dim figure floating in the darkness. It could only be the ghost of Minnie Goodsoup, the woman he'd been hoping to find--but he still felt a chill as he looked at her. She was dressed in a bride's gown, with a veil, hair piled up in a delicate arrangement, holding a pathetic bunch of withered flowers. She was lovely still--in a ghostly sort of way--in life she must have been a fetching young woman. And she looked very sad and lonely--Guybrush gathered up his courage and approached her.   

He cleared his throat. "Ahem."   

The ghost turned around. He noted with a chill that she hovered a foot or so off the ground, no legs in sight. Her skeletal expression was haunted, but it settled almost at once into something that was almost a smile. "Why..hello there!" She spoke with the soft, lilting accent of the women from the south Caribbean, the southern belles.   

"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Guybrush asked as gently as he could.   

"I am Minnie Goodsoup, last in a long line of eligible Goodsoup debutantes," she said sadly. "I was buried here exactly one week after my wedding day--a wedding day that never came!"  

"What happened?"   

"I was once the belle of Blood Island. Oh, how the lads adored me! I was courted by the richest, most handsome men in the Caribbean. But all my suitors bored me to tears! I wanted someone dangerous...I wanted a pirate! By the way," she added, looking closely at him, "what do you do for a living?"   

"Flooring inspector," Guybrush lied.   

She looked disappointed but went on. "Then, one day, a real pirate sailed his ship into the bay. I fell for him instantly, and we became engaged. But he left me standing at the altar, and I died of a broken heart!" If ghosts could cry, she would be crying.   

"Wow. That bites," was all he could manage to say.   

"Oh, I know!"   

He tried something else. "Go into the light!"   

She sighed. "If only it were that easy...I'm afraid I can never leave this crypt until I marry." She gave him an even closer inspection. "Are you attached?"   

He let her down as gently as he could. "Engaged, actually."   

"That's a shame... you sure have purty eyes."   

Guybrush gulped. "Were there any other suitors you found attractive?"   

"Well...there was one I could have fallen for." Minnie's empty gaze turned inward. "Young Charles de Goolash. He had such a radiant smile..." she trailed off.   

"What happened to him?"   

"You know, it's funny--I don't know. He checked into the hotel one night and I never saw him again."   

Guybrush had a pretty good idea what had happened to Minnie's love-interest. But speaking of love-interests, he had one of his own to think about. And the ghost still wore her empty engagement band. "Hey, nice ring!"  

She began sobbing bitterly. "Was it something I said?" asked Guybrush, concerned.   

"I hate this ring!" wept Minnie. "It's been passed down from mother to daughter in the Goodsoup family for generations. It was supposed to be my wedding ring--until that evil pirate stole the diamond and left me. Left me here to die of a broken heart!"  

"Where is the diamond for your ring?"   

"It's gone. He took it."   

"Who took it?"   

"My love! My honeycakes! My widdle schnoobums! My LeChuck!"   

"LeChuck is your schnoobums?!" Guybrush couldn't believe his ears.   

"He pried the diamond from its setting during the rehearsal dinner," continued Minnie, crying again. "Oh what a fool I was! He said that he was just taking it out to get some fresh air.." here she stopped, unable to continue.   

"Where did LeChuck take the diamond?" he persisted.   

"The cad!" spat Minnie, obviously in a much-needed catharsis. "The fiend! He sold it to the smugglers of Skull Island. It's all so embarrassing! I could just die!"   

"How do I get out of this crypt?" asked Guybrush.   

"There's no way out of here for either of us" she replied sadly. "I must haunt this lonely tomb until I've married a man I truly love--and you can't leave because the door's locked."   

Then how in the world was he going to get her ring? "Since you're..um..not using it, could I have your engagement band?"   

"This ring will remain on my finger until I have a wedding band to replace it." Minnie was adamant.   

Guybrush would just have to find some way to get out of the Goodsoup family crypt. He continued on through the dark passage until it ended in a dark room containing a stone box--a violated stone box, pried open with a crowbar. The offending object still remained at the scene of the crime, so he took it. As he did, he thought he heard an evil chuckle coming from somewhere nearby.   

He was facing the back wall, which was split by a large crack in the stones. But through that crack he could see--light. Yellow-flame-light, not blue moonlight. Someone was in there.   

Guybrush stepped around the stone box to investigate--when a demonic voice overhead yelled "DIE!!!" He gasped and stopped short--and the pale, bone-colored object missed him completely, bounced a few times on the stone floor, and moaned "Oooohhh..I'm not going to do that again." He looked down--there at his feet was his demonic friend from Plunder Island.  

"I think I broke my skull" groaned Murray. "I'm all skull!"   

"It's your own fault" replied Guybrush, still a little rattled but amused. "Stop scaring me like that!"   

"So I did scare you? Really?"   

"Well...startled is more like it."   

"Oh." Murray sounded disappointed.   

"But..but startled in a terrified sort of way." Guybrush wasn't sure why he was trying to placate the evil skull. "You really are very, very scary."  

"Don't talk down to me!"   

He looked down on Murray from his six-foot plus height. "I really don't have any choice."   

"I saw you get out of that crypt. Does this mean that you're dead?"   

"No, I was only faking."   

"Darn. I thought, together, we could walk among the living and spawn a new wave of terror throughout the Caribbean!"   

Guybrush wasn't the least bit fooled. "So what you're saying is you only love me for my legs."   

"Something like that," Murray admitted.   

He stepped carefully around the skull and peered through the crack. He must be looking into the undertaker's house--a broad-shouldered but otherwise wiry man was nestled snugly in bed, reading by the light of a lantern. Books and other fiction-related paraphernalia were strewn everywhere.   

"Hey! Mister! Help!" Guybrush yelled into the crack.   

The man sat bolt upright. "What? Who's there? Who's scaring old Mort the gravedigger?"   

"There's been a horrifying mistake! I've been buried alive in the Goodsoup family crypt!"  

To his immense surprise, the man replied, "All right! This joke has gone far enough! You kids should be ashamed of yourselves."   

"It's no joke!" Guybrush protested. "I'm really trapped in here!"  

Mort returned to his book. "Crazy kids with your long hair and your Baroque music," he muttered. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."   

"This isn't a trick! I'm really trapped in this crypt! I drank a special potion that put me into a coma--thinking I was dead, they buried me in this crypt."   

Mort only waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, right. They did that in the book Never Trade Lunches with a Corpse. If you kids ever came up with an original idea, I might believe you."   

Guybrush was getting desperate. "Just come and look at me through this crack!"   

"Nothin' doin'. I turn my back to the door, and you thieving little hoodlums will sneak up from behind and tie me up! I read all about your sinister ways in my horror novels."   

All right, then..."Curses! You've seen through my web of deceit! I'm no ordinary man trapped in a crypt..."   

"Well, what are you, then?"   

"I'm an angry and deranged ghost haunting this crypt!"   

"Then let me see you appear before me."  

He wasn't prepared for that. "Excuse me?"   

"If you were a real spirit, you could materialize in a ghostly form. It's all in the books."  

He couldn't believe how skeptical Mort was. "Isn't the ominous sound of my disembodied voice proof enough?"   

No answer. "I guess not."   

So here he was, mighty pirate and master of insults, and he'd been outwitted by an undertaker. How embarrassing. "I'm going to go sulk in the darkness now."  

"Have a good time," was Mort's cheerful reply.   

The gloom of the crypt was cheerless indeed. Not even Murray was much company--all he would do was lie on the floor moaning "Ohhh...it hurts!" Guybrush finally just picked him up and set him on the coffin lid for the moment. If he could only get that lantern from inside Mort's room, at least he'd have some light. But he couldn't reach it by himself.   

Out came the skeleton arm he'd been holding for some time now. He had to smear some paste on it to get it to hold, but eventually he was able to reach the lantern, grab it, and pull it back through the crack. He set it down next to Murray and tried to think, but the light was shining into his eyes. He went to move it, but then he happened to notice that the light was falling on the crack. When he looked through, he could see his own shadow on the wall above Mort's bed.   

Well, his own shadow wasn't particularly frightening, but he knew someone who might be. He lifted up Murray to the crack and whispered, "Murray..be fearsome!"   

The skull was only too happy to be able to frighten someone. "BOOOOO!" the shadow of the skull thundered. "I am one of the living dead! Fear me! Release me!" Murray certainly sounded fearsome, but Mort paid no attention. "Hey! I'm a ghost, here!"   

"That's just pathetic!" laughed Mort, waving a hand dismissively. "Hmmm..." thought Guybrush.  

This time he stood in the center of the patch of light and held Murray in his hands like a puppet. "Murray, do your stuff!"   

"Okay!"   

"BOOOOOOO!!" Guybrush twisted himself into a knot, waggled his fingers, bent both elbows skyward, raised a knee, and still managed to keep a grip on Murray. "BOOOOO!"   

Mort looked up--and jumped. Hovering over him was a monster with waving, leathery wings, holding a sickle in one hand, long teeth mere inches from his face! "Mortal fool!" roared the creature in the voice of doom, "Release me from this wretched tomb! I must be set free, or I will haunt you forever!" Mort cowered under his blankets, while Guybrush was hard-put not to laugh and spoil the whole effect. "I will hide your keys beneath the cushions of your upholstered furniture! And nevermore will you be able to find socks that match!"   

"All right..hang on, I'm coming." Guybrush heard all the locks being released on Mort's door, then shuffling footsteps, and judged it safe to bring Murray back down.   

"Great work, Murray!"  

The skull seemed a little dazed. "I..I was terrifying, wasn't I? My demonic powers have made me omnipotent!! Bwahahahahahaha!!!"   

The lantern ran out of oil just then, somewhat dampening Murray's triumph, but then they both heard the door to the crypt swing open. "All right, it's open" called Mort. "Now shuffle off and give me peace!"   

Back outside, Guybrush again felt a surge of relief. "Well Murray, are you ready to continue our heady adventuring?" No response--the talking skull was gone. "Murray? Where'd he go?"   

Well, now he was out, so he could see about doing something for his new relative, Minnie Goodsoup. And with his crowbar, he just might have an idea.   

Back to the hotel--to his utter lack of surprise, no one wanted to hear the story of the dead man who lived again. There was a distinct lack of curiosity on this island. But no matter..he went upstairs and set to work on the board covering the hole above the Murphy bed. After a cacophony of loud screeches and sqwaks, all the nails came free--though he was amazed that no one from downstairs came running up to see what all the commotion was about.   

To be honest, he really hadn't much idea what would happen next--all he had was an idea about using the Murphy bed as a catapult to send its occupant flying towards the cemetery so he wouldn't have to carry him so far. But instead, when he launched the bed with his crowbar, the skeleton flew into the air, holding its bedsheet over its head with both hands, and drifted down gently on its impromptu parachute--directly into the Goodsoup family crypt. Even from the room, Guybrush could hear his high-pitched, cackling laughter.  

Minerva Stronheim-Goodsoup wasn't aware that there was anyone in the tomb with her until she turned around to see a dashing young skeleton up on the platform next to her. "Oh..I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in, I was just--"  

The skeleton smiled--who could have a radiant smile like that except-- "Charles?! Charles de Goolash! Is it really you?"   

"Minnie!" That well-loved voice was still the same, after all those years. "It's been so long!"  

"Oh Charles, it has! It has! You look so different!"   

"Really? Why, you look exactly the same."   

A blush rose to her cheekbones. "Why Charles...how you flatter me!" But then maidenly decorum spoke up. "Oh, but you must go now."  

"But why..now that I've found you again after all these years?"   

His attitude was infectious, but she dutifully replied "What would our families say if they knew we were alone together on such a romantic night?"   

"Minnie--" Charles was deadly serious, "this may sound rash but...but I love you, Minnie Goodsoup!"   

She was horrified by the forbidden passion. "Oh Charles..you mustn't!" she breathed.   

"Oh, I can't help it! I've always loved ya! Do ya hear, I've always loved ya, Minnie, and I always will!" She was too stunned to reply. "Come away with me now!"   

"Elope? But Charles! It just isn't done! Think of the scandal it would cause!" Her heart was at war with her sensible nature--she couldn't tell which would win.   

"To heck with the scandal, Minnie!" declared Charles boldly.   

She wavered. "..ohhh...."   

"Marry me!"  

Her heart could contain no more--she loved him desperately, she had to be with him, even if it would horrify their families. "Oh yes, Charles! Yes! A thousand times, yes!"   

"Then kiss me, my love!"   

They drew near, hands clasped in that deathless embrace that is true love, and before the eyes of a horrified angel Minnie kissed him with all the passion in her romantic heart.   

And then they both vanished from human sight. Only her empty engagement band remained, still spinning on the stone floor, when Guybrush arrived to pick it up.  

Meanwhile, in a secret lair deep beneath Monkey Island, LeChuck was having dinner and laying into his henchmen at the same time. One, a man in a Dinghy Dog costume, was apparently the one detailed to retrieve Elaine, because he was taking the brunt of the lecture.   

"Have ye found her, ya cadaverous canine?!?" LeChuck's drumstick o' doom pointed out the costumed pirate.   

Hyuk. "Uh...nope. Nope! She's not on Plunder Island, Cap'n LeChuck." LeChuck stabbed at him with the chicken leg, but missed.   

"Then scour the seas, ye ossified rats! Hunt them down and then bring 'em to me!" He emphasized every salient point of this with his drumstick, which caught fire at some point during the operation. "Find me Guybrush Threepwood! It's with him that ye'll find Elaine!" Dinghy suddenly didn't really want to know what would happen to those two once LeChuck caught up with them.   

"Burn down every island in the Caribbean if you have to, but bring me my bride! And more slaw!" His fist slammed down on the table, rattling the empty slaw tub. "Curse the villains," complained the mighty undead pirate, "they never give ye enough slaw with these value meals!"  

All Guybrush had to do now was retrieve an incredibly valuable diamond from an unknown number of probably very dangerous smugglers--after all he'd been through, it probably wouldn't be too hard. He decided that his first order of business should be to check out the volcano.   

The village was deserted, but it was also well-lit and tables had been laid out, covered in fruits and vegetables as though there was going to be a great feast. There was even a swan centerpiece next to an enormous chunk of tofu. Guybrush picked up the tofu and tucked it away under his vest--he also helped himself to the auger and measuring cup that stood nearby. Then he made his way up the narrow trail that led to the volcano. The way was blocked by a brown man in a large mask that looked exactly like a lemon with eye-holes. He looked..familiar..somehow.   

"Perhaps it's because I look like a big lemon," the man suggested helpfully. He had a pleasantly modulated voice.   

"No, it's more than that.." Guybrush struggled with the elusive memory. "We've met before...on..Monkey Island!"   

"Ah, Monkey Island. We had a nice village there" he agreed. "Rent-controlled huts, close to the good schools. Those were the salad days, so to speak, until they put in that darned Carnival."   

For some reason that word sent a shiver through Guybrush. "Carnival?"   

"Yes, carnival," said Lemonhead sourly. "Just as soon as they put up that first tent--whoosh--the whole place becomes trendy. Sailors coming in at all hours of the night, that awful music droning on and on, and to be honest with you, I think the midway games are rigged. At night, it wasn't safe for a cannibal to walk the island alone."   

Guybrush was a little worried to discover that he'd been conversing with a cannibal, but Lemonhead reassured him that they were harmless. "We decided to cut back on our fatty missionary intake and went vegetarian altogether--although there certainly was a time I would have eaten you." The rich voice dropped even lower. "Young guy like you, not too much muscle--"   

"Hey!"   

"--I'd probably marinate you in white wine for forty-five minutes...dip you in a light corn batter..wrap you in banana leaves and bury you in a pit with a hundred hot coals..let you roast overnight.." His tone was almost seductive and Guybrush was feeling very uncomfortable. "Then I'd serve you on a bed of basmati rice..with a garnish of shitake mushrooms and shallots. Mmmmmmm.. "   

"But...not anymore, right?"   

Lemonhead seemed to be in ecstasy at the thought of eating him. "Mmmmmmmm.."   

If he ran now, could the cannibal catch him? "But-but not anymore, right?"   

"Huh? Oh..yeah..right, right" Lemonhead broke out of his trance at last, to Guybrush's relief. Still, he thought it best to change the subject. "Aren't you afraid that the volcano will erupt and destroy your village?"  

"The volcano? Oh no..Mt. Acidophilus is completely harmless. We have curried favor with Sherman, the all-powerful god of the volcano."   

Guybrush couldn't resist. "The god of the volcano likes spicy foods?"   

"Shut up, or I'll eat you."   

"Ookay."   

"When we first landed on this island, the volcano god was most upset. Belching out smoke, vomiting up lava--it was disgusting, really. And potentially hazardous. We knew we had to to something to pacify the volcano god, and we assumed that a good sacrifice would do the trick."   

"A reasonable assumption."   

"But when we threw the sacrifice into the volcano, Mt. Acidophilus erupted violently. We thought Sherman was upset at us, so we started making sacrifices every day. We tried everything--fish, poultry, livestock, phenylalanine. Then one day, we tried Brie. There was a huge eruption that nearly killed us all."   

"What happened?"   

"Sherman is lactose-intolerant."   

"Ahhh. It all makes sense, now."   

"Now," said Lemonhead, "Sherman is on a very strict diet. He only gets fresh fruit, vegetables, and of course soy products, for the proteins so important to muscle-building."   

Guybrush tried to visit the volcano, but Lemonhead blocked the way. "Our ritual sacrifice is about to begin, and non-cannibals are forbidden from witnessing the actual ceremony," he explained.   

"But that's so unfair!"   

"Tell it to the volcano gods. I don't make the rules, you know."   

"When does the ceremony begin?"   

"It was supposed to have started a half-hour ago." Lemonhead's tribe was expecting an ambassador from another island as their guest of honor, but he was late. "Apparently not all villages are as punctual as ours."  

Guybrush was beginning to get an idea. "I'll...help you find him. What does he look like?"  

"I don't know. He should be dressed for the ceremony." Guybrush assumed that meant, 'wearing a mask.' Better and better.   

"I 'll..uh..see you around" he said, and went back down the trail, out of sight. Then he took out his block of tofu and went to work on it with his auger. In the end, he had two eyeholes and a deep gouge for a mouth--it didn't look much like a fruit, but it might be taken for some sort of root crop. He stuck the disgusting blob of bean curd over his head and made his way carefully back up the mountain to Lemonhead.   

"Finally, you're here!" said the cannibal. "Come on, we're late for the sacrifice."   

Up on a platform above the volcano's crater, Lemonhead presided over an elaborate ceremony to dedicate the sacrifice--a statue of fruit and vegetables that resembled a human being--to the volcano god. He went on for several moments in his dedicatory prayer, then finally ran out of things to say. "Okay, boys, toss 'im in."  

Two more cannibals armed with machetes--Bananahead and Pineapplehead, cut the ropes binding the sacrifice to two short stakes. It fell into the caldera with scarcely a splash.   

"You've been a wonderful audience, thank you, and good night," boomed Lemonhead, then he and his fellows set to work roasting marshmallows.   

Now to disturb the delicate constitution of the volcano god--a little spicy nacho cheese should do the trick. He held some on the palm of his hand, gestured over it, and threw the lump in.   

"You fool!" cried Lemonhead! "You've just given cheese to a lactose-intolerant volcano god!! Do you know what that means?! You've brought about the Coming of the Divine Dysentery! Run for your lives!!"  

Then, of course, the volcano erupted. Huge boiling masses of lava leaped about within the crater and finally spilled over into a channel that countless flows before it had dug out of the island. It poured freely past the Goodsoup's hotel (and through the barbecue), turned, and entered the sea, raising up clouds of black smoke.  

Guybrush, sans mask and safely down in the cannibal village, almost laughed. "Wow! That was even more spectacular than I'd hoped!" He made his way as quickly as he could through the jungle and down to the hotel.   

The pot was certainly hot enough to melt the cheese now--he dumped the remaining chunks of orange into it and watched them melt. When the stuff began to bubble, he seized one of the handles and lugged the heavy pot down to the shipwreck.   

"Here, Haggis...this stuff should work to patch up the ship."   

The barber'd had plenty of time to look the stuff over. "Aye, laddy, indeed it should. The consistency of tar, but with a tangy pepper taste."   

"So..can I have your lotion now?"  

"Aye, lad..go ahead and take it."  

Guybrush did--a minute later he was back in what he was thinking of as Elaine's clearing. He squirted a few drops of lotion on her ring finger, then pulled on the ring. It came off--and promptly exploded into dust in his hand. Must be a one-use-only curse. And now her finger was ready for the new ring--once he could assemble it.   

Back he went to his most reliable source of information--Griswold Goodsoup. "How do I get out to Skull Island?"   

"Well, there used to be a regular ferry out to Skull Island.." he explained. A man known only as the Welshman used to row passengers across to the island--until one cold and foggy night when he lost his way. The Blood Island lighthouse, which had been his guide, had suddenly gone out, leaving him lost in the cold mists forever, almost never to be seen again.   

"Almost?"  

"Well, there are those who say that, late at night, if you stare into the mists long enough, you may see the Flying Welshman, rowing in his ghostly dinghy, trapped for all eternity..."   

Guybrush investigated the lighthouse. It sat on a spit of land at the very southernmost tip on the island, quite a distance out into the ocean. It was also very windy--so windy that the glass on the windward side had been shattered and the lantern for the lighthouse was nowhere to be seen. The massive glass lens was still in place, but the mirror was also in pieces on the floor. But he had a commanding view of all of Blood Island, and, somewhere in the fog, another island in the distance. Skull Island. The storm that had blown them here was still visible, black and threatening.   

Griswold had a jar that looked inviting and would probably protect a candle from the wind--he swiped it. "That jar's for my tips!" protested the bartender. "Give that back!"   

"But I was..going to put a whole lot of money in it," Guybrush lied, "too much for me to carry around with me. So I'll just take it away and fill it up." That was all right by Griswold, so he was soon in possession of the jar. And what was more, there was a mirror hanging behind the bar--he'd mistaken it for a picture of a goofy-looking pirate wannabe at first--and once he'd placed that face he'd cut from the portrait in its frame, Griswold was unable to tell that it was gone. That family resemblance works both ways.   

Now for a light source...he'd seen no candles on the island, but he had seen fireflies. But they wouldn't just fly into the jar by themselves--he'd have to lure them.   

Guybrush visited all the places he hadn't explored thoroughly yet--unexpectedly, it was the windmill that paid off. At the very top was a barrel that he hadn't been able to reach because the door was locked, but when he hooked one of the blades with his umbrella handle, it carried him up to the top. And that barrel was filled with fermenting sugar water, used for making rum. He dipped his jar and returned the more orthodox way--through the top door and out the front--and went to pay Elaine a visit.  

She gleamed hello, or at least he thought she did, as he set his jar down on the stump near the fireflies. "It's full of yummy delicious sugar water," he coaxed. "Bet that water sure tastes good." One firefly flew in to investigate, then two, then the whole swarm made a flashing bee-line directly into the jar. Guybrush poked some holes in the jar lid and capped his new light source. The entire firefly-powered lantern glowed brightly.  

Back up in the lighthouse, he set the mirror in its place, then gently put his jar on the lantern post. Immediately the lighthouse sent out a large, focused beam of light, piercing the fog. It was lovely. He wasn't sure how long the fireflies would last, but for tonight at least, no other ships would crash into Blood Island.   

And now to see if his searchlight could serve its purpose--he went down to the beach and waited. Before long, a skeletal figure in dark robes drew up to the shore and looked around. Seeing no one, it started in on a sandwich.   

"Who are you?" asked Guybrush, walking over.  

"I am the Lost Welshman..." intoned the figure in a deep, gravelly voice. "I am the ferryman...between here and Skull Island...trapped for so very long in the icy ocean mists.." His voice suddenly became that of a normal, disgruntled human being. "Oh, how I hate that blasted mist!"   

"Really? I like mist. Think it's pretty."  

"Oh sure, mist is pretty..." replied the Welshman in a disgusted tone, "but egad is it dull!"   

And the Welshman was in no mood to venture it again. "I will risk these rough waters no more" he said when Guybrush asked him for a ride. "For too long have I rocked in that watery cradle of death!"   

"Freaky imagery."   

"Whatever. Anyway, I'm not going out there again until I'm sure I can make it back safely. I need a compass."  

Guybrush was baffled. "How will being able to draw perfect circles get you out to Skull Island?"  

"Not that kind of compass! The directional kind! If you find me one, I'll take you out to Skull Island."   

He was tired of being everyone else's errand boy, but at least this quest was do-able. One of the items left to him from the snake was an encyclopedia--Volume C--and the only legible entry was on how to make a compass. He needed a magnetized object floating in a solution--the voodoo pin would do, if he stuck it through the cork, and floated it inside the measuring cup with some seawater in it--and he could magnetize it with the refrigerator magnet he'd seen in the hotel pantry. He was retrieving it when something caught his eye--a new document in the Goodsoup family files, sealed with a red ribbon. He unrolled it--and found himself reading his own death certificate.   

"This hereby certifies that Vegetable Goodsoup met his demise (at least once) on Blood Island." It would make a fine souvenir, but he had another use in mind for it. Guybrush had difficulty hiding his evil smile as he went down to the cemetery to chat with Stan.   

The salesman had converted the crypt into a true office, even using his old coffin for a desk. "Welcome back to Mutual of Stan!"   

"You've convinced me--I want to buy some insurance" said Guybrush.   

Stan was only too pleased to help--until he realized that his young customer didn't have any money. "Maybe I've confused you somewhere along the line" he said with a practiced frown. "While nothing would please me more than to send you out of here with the peace of mind that your family will be provided for (in the unlikely event of your death), I have to run a business here.." Guybrush wondered if Stan and Kenny Falmouth knew each other. "If you can't at least show me some collateral, I can't give you a policy."   

Well, Stan didn't have the market cornered on sales-pitching. "I can offer you this authentic pirate relic" Guybrush pulled out Blondebeard's gold tooth. "A genuine tooth from an actual pirate. Only one of its kind." He laid the tooth on Stan's desk.   

The molar immediately captured his plaid attention. "Is that real gold?"   

"The finest known to man. Not much spit on it, either, anymore."  

"Now you're starting to speak my language!" Stan tucked the tooth away in a secret pocket. "Let's find a coverage plan that suits your needs." He pulled a sheaf of papers from somewhere behind his back and laid them on the "desk"--Guybrush picked them up.   

"What are the terms of this plan, exactly?"   

"It's very simple, son. When you die, whoever holds that policy gets a lot of money." Back to Uncle Stan mode.   

Little did he know... "A lot of money! Wow!"   

"'Wow,' is right. Now, I want you to be careful out there.."   

"Ok, I will. Thanks!"   

Stan suddenly became very earnest. "No, I'm serious. I want you to be very, very careful."  

"Will do" replied Guybrush cheerfully and went outside. Then he immediately turned around and went right back in. "I'm cashing in this insurance policy. Give me a lot of money."  

"But this is a life insurance policy" Stan explained. "You collect when the policy holder dies."   

"No, honest. I was dead, for a really long time!"   

"And you just..got better?"   

Even Guybrush had to admit that this seemed a bit hard to believe. "Well...yes."   

"Do you have any proof of this miracle?"   

"As a matter of fact, smart guy, I've got your proof right here. A death certificate!" Down came the document onto Stan's desk.   

He looked plaidly flustered. "This must be some kind of mistake..."   

"Nu-uh, it's right there, in high-rez black-and-white. I died. Give me a lot of money."  

Stan studied the policy--and the certificate--and the policy again, clearly trapped in his own red tape. "It looks like I'm left with no choice but to acquiesce" he finally admitted.   

"No! Just give me my money!"   

"That's what I meant." Stan deposited a large handful of gold coins on the desk.   

"Oh. Thanks." Guybrush collected his insurance money and was out the door. It really was a lot of money.   

Back at the beach he magnetized the needle with the Big Whoop magnet, gave the assembled compass to the Flying Welshman, and they were on their way into the mists towards Skull Island.   

As they neared the shore, the Flying Welshman spoke again. "Even the bravest of men must dread the horror of this place. Steel your courage, boy, now, before you gaze upon the terrible, horrible face of..." Guybrush followed his gaze up..and up...to the dreadful top of the island.."Skull Island!!"   

Lightning crashed, right on cue, perfectly illuminating the small domed head, the large eyes, the long horrible, flat beak of the dread figurehead of the island.   

"That's a duck!" exclaimed Guybrush.   

"What are you talking about?" demanded the Welshman. "Can't you see the skull?"  

"This island doesn't look like a skull at all! It looks like a great big enormous duck! It should be called Duck Island."   

The ferryman verbally backpeddled. "Well..ya see...you've got to kind of squint and sorta turn your head, and.... Oooohhhhhhh, it's just so scary!"   

Even that didn't bring any fearsome visage to life on the top of the island. "If you squint and turn your head, it looks like a bunny."   

"Well, anyway--see that light up there on the cliff face?" There was a small point of light visible halfway up the sheer cliff. "That's Smugglers' Cave. It's run by King André, the greatest smuggler in the world, and his nefarious assistant, Cruff."  

The cliff looked unclimable. "How do I get up there?"  

"You have to go to the top of the cliff." The Welshman still sounded a little deflated by the failure of his theatrics.   

"Won't you be coming with me?"  

" No..." the theatrics were back, in full force.. "you must go alone.. There will be someone there who will help you. But I warn you--beware of King André! He is as ruthless as he is bald. And good luck."   

Guybrush scaled the back way around the sheer cliff until he reached the top, in the shadow of that huge flat bill of the duck head. There he found a small, worried looking man in blue pants standing next to a winch, which apparently would lower a plank of wood down to the cave.   

"Hello. Can you tell me how to find the evil smugglers of Skull Island?" he asked pleasantly.   

"Beats me" said the man in a nasal voice. "Oh..wait a second, I think I remember something about that at the Orientation Seminar. Let me think...the cave is halfway down this sheer cliff face. Climb on board this dumbwaiter..I-I'll lower you down."   

"It looks pretty rickety" Guybrush eyed with trepidation the flimsy-looking arrangement of three ropes holding up a small circle of board. "Are you sure it's safe?"   

"No, never used it before. But I'm sure it can't be that dangerous." He didn't sound at all sure of himself. "I'm a temp here--the usual elevator operator, Brawnbeard, he's sick, so I'm filling in."   

"I guess that'll be okay.." Maybe. "What's your name?"   

"It's LaFoot."   

"Would you lower me down to the Smugglers' Cave?"  

"S-sure..I can do that. You..you must weigh no more than, say...twenty pounds, right?"   

Guybrush was having serious second thoughts. "Actually, more like a hundred twenty."   

"Oh. Well, it..can't hurt to try, right?"   

Make that third or fourth thoughts. "Now you're sure about this...?"   

"Oh yeah...you don't look that heavy at all." Guybrush kept his thoughts to himself on that one. "Is that knot tied securely?"   

As far as the mighty pirate could tell, it was--it was the board he was worried about. And the operator. "Here we go!"   

Guybrush stepped onto the board--and dropped ten feet sickeningly fast. He clung to two of the ropes, looking down at the nasty drop below, hoping the elevator wasn't going to tip. "All right...give me a little bit more slack.." he called to LaFoot. The rope holding the entire conveyance stretched tighter, making little creaking sounds--and then went loose altogether. "Whoops!" came from LaFoot above--and elevator and Guybrush went plummeting towards the cliff below. "Okay, that's too much slack!" he yelled. "Aaaaaaaahhhh!!!"   

Down he went, in free fall, arms and legs waving wildly in an instinctive attempt to fly, when suddenly he remembered his umbrella. He had just enough time to get it out--the wind from his wild descent blew it open, bringing his fall to a sudden halt (and nearly wrenching his arms out of his sockets). Clutching the umbrella, he was able to make a gentle glide down to the ledge of the Smugglers' Cave.   

Inside was a mass of treasure and loot, including several dozen of those obnoxiously cute pirate toys, Smuggle Bunnies. But the two most arresting features of the whole scene were King André and Cruff, sitting at a table in the center of the room. An interesting walkway that was half ramp and half staircase led down to the main floor, where they sat, from the entrance to the cave. Guybrush came part of the way down this and stopped.  

Subtlety didn't seem to be called for here. "Stand aside or I'll strike you down!"   

"Grrrr..." Cruff was a large, blocky man, and that growl carries a hundred implied threats. Guybrush hastily changed tactics.   

"Err...I'll strike you down with how polite and reasonable I can be."   

"We seem to have an unwanted visitor, Cruff" said dark-skinned King André smoothly. "Deal with him."   

"Darn..let me try that again." Apparently he'd gotten off on the wrong foot with these two. "I have got so much money, it's almost embarrassing!"   

"Well, hello!" André's tone was decidedly friendlier. "Let's talk, Mr....?"   

There didn't seem to be any point in lying. "Threepwood. Guybrush Threepwood." But he stayed where he was for the moment.   

"Very well, Mr. Threepwood. I am King André, and this is my associate, Cruff." He indicated the blocky bull with a wave of his hand. "Were you looking for something in particular?"   

"The Goodsoup family diamond. LeChuck stole it, you bought it, I want it. Now."   

"Grrrrrr...."   

"Please? Sir?"   

"But we have so much quality merchandise here at the Pirates' Club!"   

"Our prices get lower every day" Cruff chimed in.   

André took up the theme again. "Everything a pirate...or pirate in training...could ever want is here. For the right price. A ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" He had a great, booming laugh--it made the hair rise on the back of Guybrush's neck.   

"You're evading the whole diamond issue."   

"The Goodsoup diamond is the centerpiece of my collection" André informed him. "The fantastic energy flowing through it is the key to all my power."   

"So can I have it?"   

"Of course you can't have it--unless you were to give something in return."  

"That diamond belongs in a museum!" Sure, it was an old line, but it was one of his best.   

But André was unperturbed. "So do post-impressionist paintings, Mr. Threepwood," he responded as though he was saying something profound. "So do post-impressionist paintings."   

Guybrush blinked. "What the heck is that supposed to mean?"   

The smuggler steepled his fingers. "One day, you will understand."   

This verbal sparring was getting him nowhere. "Maybe we could make a deal" suggested the pirate.  

"As you wish. You are a formidable opponent, Mr. Threepwood," he added as Guybrush descended the stairs, "but it looks as if our game of cat-and-mouse must cease." When he had reached their table, André pulled from a pouch near his waist an enormous, colorless gem. It could only be the Goodsoup diamond.   

"It is a perfect diamond, one of the largest I've ever seen," André went on. "And so it comes with a very large price."   

"Enough with the hard sell! How much?"   

"It will cost you an awful lot of money. Do you have that much?"   

"Well, I have a lot of money..."  

"Ha! Not enough" opined Cruff.   

"My partner is right" said André smoothly. "We can't give it to you for anything less than an awful lot of money. But perhaps we could make a deal. My partner and I are very fond of cards. Poker in particular. How about a little wager? If you can defeat us at poker, you win the diamond."   

"Sounds fair," ventured Guybrush cautiously.   

André wore an unreadable expression. "Yes. Fair. HA ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!"   

"Could you stop laughing like that? It's very unnerving."   

"So, Mr. Threepwood...the question is to you: Care to join us in a game of cards?"   

This looked like his best chance to get that diamond. "Sure. Deal me in, baldy." Guybrush took the vacant third chair at their table.  

"You will have to pay to enter the game" added André.   

"How much do I need?"   

"Not very much," answered Cruff.   

"Sure, I can handle that." This is a lot of money, he thought. I'd better only give them part of it. He counted out ten coins by feel and set them in a stack on the table.  

André gathered them up. "Have you ever played poker before, Mr. Threepwood?"   

"No," lied Guybrush brightly. "Would you believe that this is my very first time?" Cruff gave an ominous chuckle at that.   

"Then I'll give you a brief explanation," André was courteous, in his own fashion. "The game is the simplest variety of five-card stud. I deal five cards to each of us, we show our cards to one another, and the player with the best hand wins."   

"How do I know what makes the best hand?"   

"If you have any questions, just ask us. You do trust us, don't you?"   

About as far as I can throw you, you low-life crook. "Of course I trust you!"  

"Very well. Let us begin." André dealt with amazing speed, and the three bent to studying their cards. Guybrush's hand was lousy. There wasn't even a high card that might win it for him, no royalty, nothing. The smuggler had no doubt deliberately dealt him a losing hand.   

Well, two could play this game. Guybrush covertly slipped his cards into his sleeve and drew out the five Tarot death cards--neither Cruff nor André noticed. He laid his hand down on the table. "Five of a kind! Right there. Not even you guys can beat five of a kind."   

For a moment he thought he'd stumped André. "You are correct, Mr. Threepwood. We cannot beat five of a kind. The question remains, however, whether or not you can beat a pair."   

"A pair?"   

"A pair of murderous smugglers" added Cruff, reaching below the table. He aimed his revealed pistol at Guybrush.   

Guybrush pretended not to get it. "Huh?"   

André finally spelled it out. "Us, Mr. Threepwood. I'm talking about us."   

"We're gonna kill ya!" Cruff elaborated.   

"Oh...I get it," the light had finally dawned. "'Whether or not you can beat a pair'--that's pretty clever." Neither one looked amused. Guybrush got to his feet. The pistol did not waver an inch. "Now, now, gentlemen...let's not be too hasty.."   

And, ironically, it was LaFoot who was his deliverance. He opened a concealed door on the other end of the lair--and wind blew in, threatening the candles overhead. "There's a deliveryman here with a package--"   

And then out went the candles, leaving them in total darkness. Guybrush and Cruff both sprang for the diamond. The pirate won--"I got the diamond"--then Cruff seized him by the throat--"Not for long, you little--!" A quick flash of lightning showed André on the table about to bring an oar down on Guybrush's head--then darkness again. Confused by the sudden darkness, André missed--the oar came down squarely on Cruff. Guybrush, released, sprang onto the table, then leaped up and clung to the chandelier as Cruff went blindly in search of his quarry. "Hit him, not me, you cretin!" André yelled from somewhere nearby. "Who are ya callin' a cretin , you--OOOF!" was Cruff's inspired answer. Guybrush, temporarily out of harm's way, wished he could see what was going on down there. Then a flash of lightning revealed Cruff getting André in a leg-lock--and exposed his hiding place. He released the chandelier and ran for the other door. "There he goes--get him!" yelled the king of the smugglers, but it was too late. As soon as darkness covered him, Guybrush bolted up the stairs and out the door, leaving the Smugglers' Cave in chaos.   

The door opened onto the lower level of Skull Island, right next to the Welshman's post. "Got what I needed from the smugglers" said Guybrush nonchalantly.   

"Good! Let us leave this place of evil." He got into the dinghy and the Welshman rowed them safely back to Blood Island.   

When they reached the shore of Blood Island again, the ferryman didn't get out of his boat. "Good luck on the rest of your adventures, Guybrush."   

He was leaving? "You can't mean--"   

"I'm afraid so. This work is too dangerous for me. I'm going to find a more stable, secure line of work. I hear there's still an opening for a cook on Scabb Island."   

"But you'll be sorely missed."   

"I know. But my destiny lies out there, somewhere beyond the rolling waves."   

There was nothing else to say. "Farewell, good friend Welshman."   

The ghostly figure turned his dinghy and was soon out of sight--almost. Suddenly he turned and came back to the shore. "Where did you say Scabb Island was, again?"   

"East by northeast--you can't miss it."   

Again he turned, and once more was lost to sight in the mist. Suddenly Guybrush remembered something. "Whoops! I forgot to tell him that a magnetized pin will only have compass-like properties for a short time.." Oh well..at least he was familiar with being lost at sea . And on that note, Guybrush started up the trail to the clearing where Elaine was waiting for him.   

On Monkey Island, the Carnival of the Damned was in full-swing. Hordes of pirates rode the roller coaster, screaming in sheer delight--until they plunged through a pit of boiling hot lava. Up came the cars again, containing skeletal and much more subdued pirates--until they saw the next horrible torture awaiting them. Then the screams were far more genuine.   

Higher up, LeChuck was inspecting the finished product. "Ah..another group of recruits for my army of the undead!" He was in a good mood, relatively speaking. "Now..how goes the search for my bride-to-be?" No answer. "Where's Dinghy Dog?!" bellowed the undead pirate.   

"I found em! I found 'em!" Dinghy was almost beside himself as he bounced towards the little group. Hyuk hyuk. "Oh golly oh gosh!" Hyuk. "That's right!"   

"Where?!?!" LeChuck spit out a stream of fire with that word, toasting his over-enthusiastic henchman into better sense.   

"Uh..they're on Blood Island, sir" replied a much more sober (and scorched) Dinghy Dog.   

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