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Pirate Rule #1: Never be the damsel in distress.

Captain Guybrush Marley-Threepwood pondered this truth as he continued his daily journal entry.

The pirate vessel was easily twice the size of her intended prey--a honeymoon ship, complete with honeymooners.  The most sickeningly cute thing on the seven seas.  No pirate would ever approach such a mass of cupids, ribbons, hearts, flowers, bells, etc. without a compelling reason--but the bedecked little ship's keel rode low with just such a reason.

More than her fair share of sickeningly cute wedding booty. 

Surely it was too much for her to carry.  The sisterly thing to do on the high seas would be to relieve the little ship of her unkind load. 

The Manky Marauder had overtaken the smaller vessel with ease, boarded her, and reduced her defiant-but-tiny Captain to helpless captivity, chained to the center mast.  Let him go down with the ship.  Only a handful of pirates and the surprisingly capable First Mate remained standing between the Manky's crew and their goal. Soon they would finish off these pesky gadflies, plunder the hold, set fire to the pathetic Love Boat.  Then off they would go on their own victorious man-o-war, swilling grog and singing. 

Yes, it was good to be a pirate.  Let this be a lesson to all.  Piracy = good.  Honeymooners = bad.

Boy, it's hard to write like this, Guybrush mused, pen clamped firmly between his teeth.  Around him, the sounds of combat continued.

Well, of course this all could have been avoided, some inner voice nagged.  But come on, he was a lovesick pirate on his honeymoon.....and there were other ways "Guybrush!  Secure the booty!" could be interpreted....

So here he sat, in flagrant violation of Pirate Rule #1, wondering how long it would be before Elaine single-handedly drove off the attacking pirates, sunk their vessel, and unchained him.

He sighed.  Story of his life.

Sometimes, he penned, when it's quiet, I can still hear the monkeys....

Pirate Rule #61: No matter how incompetent he may be, a loving wife makes her husband look good at battle on the high seas.

Elaine half-sighed--that is, she got half an inhale and then forgot all about breathing as an axe so large it had Freudian imagery written all over it swung down at her left knee.  She sidestepped the thing, punched the wielder in the temple with the pommel of her sword, heard the satisfying thud as he kissed their laminate (completely artificial and fireproof) deck.  She had a pistol in her belt but no time to draw it, not even an instant...

A second axe she hadn't seen struck her sword and sheared it off neatly, mid-length.  She jabbed the twisted end at her attacker, resulting in a quick leap back but an equally fast downward slice at her extended arm.  Without even thinking about it, she brought the fallen pirate's axe up to parry. 

Where's Guyb--oh, right.  Her mighty pirate husband was keeping the mast warm.  She did sigh.

"Guybrush," she called, just trying to get his attention.  His head was down in his journal, sitting on the deck, busily writing. 

"Guybrush!" 

His head shot up, pen firmly in teeth.  Broken sword in one hand, axe in the other, she shoved yet another attacker across the deck.  Make him look good.  Oh, Holy Neptune...

Sheepishly.  "Uh....yes, dear?"

His big, blue eyes were utterly guileless.  In her softer moments, she had to admit she did love her helpless pirate husband.

This was not one of those moments.

As half of the currently unengaged attacking pirates ran in her direction, she shrieked the first thing that came to mind.  "Stop daydreaming and make yourself useful!"

Idiot, she berated herself, reluctantly giving ground before her current attacker.  He's chained to a mast.  What's he going to do?

Half a minute later, she got her answer.

BOOM!

The little honeymoon ship shook.  Elaine froze in place, hearing the sickening crunch of wood that signified a breached vessel.  She bit her lower lip, wondering frantically how she was going to unchain Guybrush, get to a lifeboat, and still manage to recover some of their wedding gifts...

Her opponent stared past her in horror as she let the axe drop from her fingers.  She turned, slowly....

Next to them, the Manky Marauder spewed smoke.  Water was rushing in at both sides from what appeared to be a single cannonball shot.  Her eyes darted along the port cannon, all unmanned, none correctly aimed.  Except one.

What unbelievable luck.....

The only cannon which could have fired on the Manky was the one right next to Guybrush.  Coals were scattered near his feet from an overturned brazier, and a curl of smoke rose from the tip of one boot.  He turned and gave Elaine a tiny, slightly guilty smile.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of seawater, the Manky sank to the ocean bed with a gurgle.

Elaine's hand, thinking for itself, drew the pistol from her belt, twirled it around one thumb, and aimed it at the enemy pirate.  A small symphony of clicks sounded from either side--the defending pirates suddenly realized that they had been armed the entire time.  Every attacker dropped weapons and reached for the crow's nest.

Elaine Marley-Threepwood raised an eyebrow and allowed herself a small smile.  Steam was still rising from the former location of the Manky.

The attacking pirates had yet to learn Pirate Rule #436: Never underestimate Guybrush Threepwood.

Sword still in hand, she paced across the deck toward her captive husband.  He watched her uncertainly.

"My little snugglecakes," she cooed, wrapping both arms around him.

"Awwwwwwww," chorused the watching pirates.

Pirate Rule #1: Never be the damsel in distress.  Pirate Rule #2: However, should you be in this unfortunate position, use it to your advantage... 

And so it was quite some time before Guybrush actually got unchained.

Escape from Monkey Island™

A novelization by Chris Ratcliff and Heather Oglevie

ACT I:

THINGS TO DO ON MÊLÉE ISLAND™ WHEN YOU'RE DEAD

"Land ho!"  The cry from the crow's nest resounded throughout the ship. Mêlée Island™ could be seen on the horizon. Elaine, standing on the deck and gazing over the moonlit seas, sighed for a bit.

After three months, they were home.

She went below deck to gather up some of their luggage. When she resurfaced several minutes later with a couple of packing crates, the deck was a hive of activity. The crew, mostly Plunder Island pirates, raced around tightening knots, lighting lanterns, battening hatches, reefing sails, and generally getting ready to dock. Guybrush, seemingly spurred on by the frenetic activity around him, was vividly recalling the drama of their last high seas engagement for an appreciative, if somewhat silent, audience.

Elaine set the crates down by his feet. She went back down the stairs for the next load. Yes, she thought a little wistfully. Back to work.

"..the way I pushed that smelly pirate right over the rail!" said Guybrush. " Now that's the stuff of pirates-"

Elaine came back up the stairs bearing more luggage. She set it down on the deck, and smiled. Guybrush's enthusiasm, as usual, was infectious. . "Hmm. I hope the loyal citizens of Mêlée™ don't hurt themselves," she said. "You know, all the pushing and shoving on the dock to see my--well, our, return could be dangerous." She pointed to a hatbox. "Make sure this one stays on top."

Guybrush nodded. "Then there was the squab who came at me with a rusty fid!" he continued theatrically. "I sure taught him a thing or two about the proper use of deckchairs." Guybrush reached down to help Elaine with a particularly heavy treasure chest. Inspired by the reckless bravado of his tale, he seized the chest and vigorously threw it onto the growing pile of luggage.

The chest landed on the hatbox and squashed it flat. Guybrush gulped, and glanced guiltily at Elaine.

Elaine, however, was too preoccupied to notice. She gazed once more at Mêlée Island™. The air around them smelled of sweat, of burning tallow... and the bracing, fresher-than-fresh air of Mêlée™, blowing out from the shore. After three hedonistic, pleasure-filled months, they were home.

You know the next few months won't be easy, she thought. Running the Tri-Island Area took an immense amount of work, and it was a task she'd been only too happy to suspend for the duration of their honeymoon. Now she was back in the hot seat. And while she'd done her job successfully in the past, back then she hadn't been married. The future was filled with uncertainty... She felt better living in a place she knew and trusted completely.

"The burden of being the Governor of such an adoring yet unsophisticated public can be so draining," Elaine murmured. She pictured the throng of pirates waiting for them at the docks. "I'll be lucky if I can get a second to myself for months."

Guybrush came up beside her and slipped an arm around her waist. "You know, we make a great team: the way we communicate, the way we work together, the way we anticipate each other's every move; there's nothing we can't accomplish."

"Hmm?" said Elaine. As she looked at him, there was a momentary pull as the ropes tightened against the docks. The ship was still.  "Oh well, here goes... might as well get all the hullabaloo over with." The gangplank was thrown over the side.

The thud as it struck the cobbled surface below echoed throughout the docks.

The very empty docks.

Elaine and Guybrush stared out in bafflement. "Wha... wh..."

"Where is everyone?"

"Maybe everyone went to bed early?" suggested Guybrush.

"Where's the welcoming committee? The banners? The crushing throng of well-wishers?" Elaine's mind raced. She'd lived on Mêlée Island™ for most of her life, and one thing she knew about the local pirates - and this wasn't ego-tripping, just the plain facts, sir - was that they honored and respected and adored her. The empty docks before her were like a slap in the face.

Something's not right here. "Oh dear," said Elaine. "Do you know what this means?"

Guybrush looked at her slyly. "We can spend another three months honeymooning?"

Slowly, unsurely, they walked down the gangplank and onto the docks. "No, you adorable numbskull. Something's gone horribly wrong, while I've been away. Nothing else can explain-"

A faint, high-pitched chittering sound suddenly pricked at her ears. Elaine looked to her left. Some small furry animal was skittering towards them, screeching as loud as it could.  "What's that?" said Guybrush. Then he gasped. "Hey!!!  It's Timmy the Monkey!"

They ran to greet the Elaine's little pet monkey.

"How are ya, boy?" said Guybrush. But Timmy clearly had something more urgent on his mind. He screeched at them and waved his arms.

"Either his litter box is full, or he's trying to tell us something," said Guybrush. "What is it, boy?"

"Oop!  Eek eek!  Chee!" screeched Timmy.

"Timmy, is something wrong?" asked Elaine.

"Oop!  Oop!  Eek!" affirmed Timmy. Then, his attempt at cross-species communication having failed somewhat, Timmy resorted to a swift and complicated series of hand gestures somewhat resembling a game of charades played at 10x speed.

"Free grog at the Scumm Bar?" said Guybrush, somewhat hopefully.

"There's been an outbreak of scurvy?" asked Elaine.

"You won 74 bucks playing bingo but lost it all playing banana futures?"

"Oop," sighed Timmy, his shoulders slumping. He shrugged, turned, and pointed squarely at the Mansion.

"There's trouble at the governor's Mansion!?!?" said Guybrush and Elaine simultaneously. "Let's go!!"

They ran the rest of the way. They didn't see anyone.

Not until they reached the Mansion, where they saw a stooping, badly-shaved man catapulting boulders at their home.

He wasn't a particularly good shot. The front yard was littered with bowling-ball-sized boulders and yard-wide divots, while the Mansion was--as yet--untouched. But he had a very large pile of boulders next to his catapult, and he looked like he meant business.

What is he DOING here? wondered Elaine, even as the next boulder was sent flying. It landed on a few meters from the side of the house, causing her to sharply cry out. Who's behind this?

Guybrush instantly confronted him. "What do you think you're doing?" he said.

The catapult operator swivelled his head to look at him. He grinned. "What does it look like I'm doing, fancy pants? I'm knocking down the Governor's Mansion."

"But you can't knock down the Governor's Mansion without approval from the Governor!" said Elaine.

"Yeah," said Guybrush.

"The Governor's dead, ma'am," said the catapult operator, whose name was Tony DiBoulda.

Elaine and Guybrush looked at him disbelievingly. "Dead?"

"Twas the marriage that kilt her, they say," added Tony.

This is getting more surreal by the moment. "But I'm the Governor!" exclaimed Elaine. "Do I look dead to you?"

Tony looked suspiciously at Elaine. "Uh, no ma'am," he conceded.

"Then cease and desist your boulder-flinging immediately!" said Elaine.  That sounded important enough.

"Yeah!" added Guybrush.

"Sorry, Governor, I'm under contract," said Tony. "I'm legally obligated to destroy your mansion with this here catapult." Judging that the conversation was over, he turned from them and started fiddling with the catapult controls, swearing under his breath, and making obscene gestures at Timmy.

"Something's rotten on Mêlée Island™," said Elaine to Guybrush.

"I know, but the stench usually drifts away with high tide," said Guybrush cheerfully.

Elaine resisted the urge to strangle him. "I've got a plan," she said instead.

"...although it sometimes lingers during an eclipse..."

"Guybrush!"

He looked at her innocently. "Yes, dear?"

"I'm going down to City Hall to see about getting declared un-dead. In the meantime, I need you to do two things for me."

"More backrubs and foot massages?" said Guybrush slyly.

Elaine nearly said something bad-tempered, but a recent honeymoon memory surfaced. She paused. "Maybe later.  First, I want you to put a stop to this insane boulder-flinging."

Guybrush nodded. "Stop the insanity. Check."

"Second, I want you to go to Lucre Island™ and talk to my grandpa's lawyers. They might know how to help us fight city hall."

This didn't sound so good to Guybrush. Where was the adventure, the romance? The high-seas drama? Guybrush could just imagine the fireside yard he'd spin from this little conflict: The Day I Went to See the Family Lawyers. Yeah, real terrifying. "But I hate talking to lawyers!" he whined.

"Not as much as they'll hate talking to you, dear," said Elaine reasonably.

"Okay."

Elaine wasn't anywhere near as sanguine. Something told her this boulder-flinging business was only the tip of the iceberg.

You've been declared dead. Who would want you dead?

The worrying thing was, she couldn't easily narrow the list down. "Well, I've got a resurrection to perform!" she said, consciously trying to be cheerful for Guybrush's benefit. "Be good, dear! Don't forget: Stop the Catapult.  Go to Lucre Island™." This was spoken in a careful, don't-forget tone. Then she turned and walked briskly back to town, Timmy in tow.

"Sounds like the honeymoon's over," cackled Tony.

"She was a lot nicer before she died," said Guybrush. Well, okay, he told himself. Time to get problem-solving.

He didn't have a sword on him, so fighting was out of the question. Maybe he could insult the catapult operator until he gave up, but one look at his scrawny, hunchbacked body and decade-old clothing told him he'd have to be pretty darned creative with the insults.

That left him only one recourse, the most useless method of solving disputes ever invented. Reason.

"Um... excuse me..." said Guybrush.

Tony stopped muttering numbers and peered at him. "What?" he snapped.

"Please stop firing boulders at my house," asked Guybrush. "It's very unnerving."

"Sorry 'bout that, kid, but I'm under contract." He picked up a boulder from the pile nearby, his back bending under the strain.

"What would it take to get you to stop flinging rocks at my house?" asked Guybrush. He was starting to regret having left their luggage on the docks. A nice juicy bribe looked like the best way to solve this problem. Of course, Elaine did keep valuables in the Mansion, but Guybrush was not going to go rushing in there while some maniac flung boulders at the place.

"Permanently?" Tony seemed interested by the question, as if contemplating some kind of philosophical problem. "Some kind of restraining order, I guess. You'd need some fancy lawyers for that."

"Okay, how about temporarily?" asked Guybrush.

"Well, the union gives us liberal snack breaks during the day," said Tony. "But I don't have any snacks. And I'm telling ya, this shift is getting long and exhausting."

That was all Tony was willing to share with Guybrush. The only other thing Guybrush managed to learn was that Tony was using a cactus in the front garden to calibrate the catapult. "All I know is how to hit that cactus.. I'm trying to extrapolate from there." Guybrush made a surreptitious attempt to sabotage the controls, but this was met with a snarl and a clenched fist from Tony. "Get away from there, before I pop you one on the head, capiche?"

There wasn't much he could do here for now. Guybrush turned and ran into town.

His destination was the Scumm Bar. The sweatiest, grimiest, stinkingest pirate-hole in the whole of the Caribbean. Haven for the rowdiest bunch of drunken scalliwags you'll ever see.

Inside, it was a lot less rowdy than Guybrush remembered. In fact, it was almost deserted. There were two pirates shooting darts nearby, a rotund pirate with a pegleg sitting in the corner, and a drunken dwarf slumped out in another. Surveying the scene with the weary contempt of someone who's seen it all before was the most horribly scarred bartender Guybrush had ever seen.

Still, the place still had that acidic smell of regurgitated grog about it. Some things hadn't changed.

Guybrush wandered casually over to the bar. "Hail and hello, o Master of all things grog-like," he said.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Marley?" grunted the bartender.

"Threepwood," corrected Guybrush.

"Ach, sorry about that."

"You got any snacks?" asked Guybrush. This was the best plan he'd been able to come up with--get some snacks, offer them to the catapult operator (or Boulder Flight Technician, as Tony liked to be known), then sabotage the catapult while he was distracted. It should work, he told himself.

"I've got some pretzels..." said the bartender.

"Well, that seems harmless enough."

"Yep. The Scumm Bar's famous kudu jerky pretzels."

Guybrush shuddered. "Eugh. Got anything else?"

The bartender looked at the bar, and the shelves behind him. "Not really."

"Okay, let's have some," said Guybrush.

The bartender shook his head. "Sorry, I can't give you any. That drunk over there has the last basket." He nodded at the drunk dwarf in the corner.

"Can't you give them to me without a basket?" asked Guybrush.

"Sorry, it's Scumm Bar policy. You really don't want to carry these babies around in your bare hands."

"You're probably right," admitted Guybrush.

"That's the spirit. See if that inebriated fellow over there'll see fit to give you some." Guybrush thanked the bartender and went towards the drunk. His head was bowed over the table, resting on one flabby arm. The other clutched a near-empty grog bottle. On the table was a bowl of kudu jerky pretzels. Beside the drunk's head floated a bright blue balloon, tied to a chair. It said, 'Happy Birthday.'

"Hi there, fellow swashbuckler," greeted Guybrush.

"Dsnaho," mumbled the drunk. Guybrush recoiled a little--even the guy's breath was alcoholic.

"Say, mind if I have some of your pretzels?" he asked.

"Scmpo." Though the drunk seemed only half-aware of Guybrush's presence, this definitely sounded like a no.

"You sure I can't have any of your pretzels?"

"Frsny prlbl."

Guybrush moved toward the basket anyway, but the drunk yelled and flailed blindly at him with one arm. Guybrush quickly stepped back.

Well, he wasn't done here yet. Guybrush headed back to the bar, where the two dart throwers were still engrossed. The wall around the dartboard was pocked with tiny little dart holes, but these two seemed to be fairly decent shots.

As he watched, one of the dart-throwers hit a triple eight.

"Nice shot," said Guybrush.

"Buzz off, buzzard-breath," said the dart thrower.

"Yeah! Can't you see we're busy here?" added the shorter dart thrower.

"You're in a bar. You're playing darts. This is busy?" asked Guybrush.

"Listen, we're playing for the title of Grand Master Dart Champion of Mêlée Island™, and unless you're good enough to compete-"

"-which you aren't-"

"-we'd advise you to take a long walk off a short pier."

"Yeah, busy making holes in the walls," quipped Guybrush.

"I'm a dart throwing maniac!" said the shorter pirate, aggrieved. "Name it, and I'll hit it."

This was his chance. Guybrush pointed at the drunk in the corner. "I bet you can't hit that balloon over there," he said.

The short dart thrower turned, and sighted down his target. "Watch the master at work."  He drew his arm back and threw the dart. It sailed perfectly through the air with just the slightest of parabolas, striking the balloon right in the middle.

It burst with a loud bang. The shock was too much for the drunk, who gasped, then slumped to the table, out cold. "Oops," said the short dart thrower. He shrugged, and turned back to the game in progress.

Guybrush crept forward. The drunk seemed to have settled into a long, rasping sleep. He wouldn't be needing those pretzels anymore. Guybrush snapped them up. Woven basket in hand, he strode out to the docks.

Soon, he had an ever better plan. Moving swiftly back along the docks, he'd seen a flat circle of rubber on the cobblestones. It was a popped inner tube, about two feet in diameter. He stopped and picked it up. The rubber stretched in his grip. Guybrush smiled.

When he reached the Mansion, he didn't approach Tony. Instead, he snuck around the back of the Mansion, emerging near the cactus Tony was using for calibration. Whatever was a  cactus doing on this tropical island? It probably didn't matter.

The cactus consisted of one thick trunk which split into two prongs halfway up. It looked a lot like a slingshot. Guybrush slipped the inner tube over the two prongs and slid it down until the rubber stretched satisfyingly taut. Now it really looked like a slingshot.

He backed away and approached Tony. The Mansion was still untouched, and Guybrush had a sudden feeling of invincibility. Somehow he knew this ridiculous plan was bound to succeed.

"Not that I'm complaining," he said conversationally, "but why are you having such a hard time hitting my house?"

"It's this catapult!" Tony complained. "I've never seen such a finicky piece of machinery. Besides which, it throws like a girl."

Guybrush held out the basket of jerky pretzels. "Here, I brought you some kudu jerky pretzels."

Tony's rat-like face lit up. "Really? Thanks! I really appreciate this."

"You're welcome. You know, you could thank me by not chucking big 'ol boulders at my house."

"I could... But I won't. Now leave me alone for a few minutes while I eat this." He wandered off, chewing industriously at a pretzel.

Guybrush snuck forward and looked at the catapult controls. He only had a chance to twiddle with a few, though, before Tony saw what was going on. "Hey! Whadda ya think you're doing?" he shouted, scampering back.

Guybrush stood there and looked innocent. "Nothing! I don't know what you're talking about!"

Tony took one look at the controls. His face started to go red. "You've totally messed up my catapult! Watcha tryin' to do ta me? You're killing me over here!" His hands moved over the controls, returning them to their reset positions. "Well, I guess I'm gonna have to start over at my calibration cactus over there."

Guybrush glanced over at the cactus. He saw the thin band of rubber around the two prongs was very visible, but the catapult operator seemed too angry to notice. He twiddled with a toothed wheel, lugged a boulder onto the catapult, and pulled the lever.

With unerring aim, the boulder flew through the air and struck the inner tube. The inner tube caught it neatly, stretching almost to the ground, the cactus pulled back by the force. The boulder slowed, stilled. And flew back the way it came.

"What the-" Tony's mouth fell open. He had just enough time to run before the boulder landed smack on the catapult, making enough noise to wake the dead. Guybrush shielded his face with both hands.

When the dust cleared, the catapult was still there, battered but alive. Tony leered at Guybrush. "Ha!"

A small lever inside the catapult machinery suddenly gave away. The parking brake, in fact. The immense kinetic energy of the boulder had transferred itself to the catapult which, now free to move, took off like a cork from a bottle. The wheels of the catapult spun in the dirt as the catapult zoomed toward the cliff. Serenely it rolled over the edge. A few seconds later, the earth shook and flames licked up the side of the cliff.

Tony looked down at the catapult's grave in the sand. "I can't believe you did that!" he said. "Do you have any idea what these things cost? They don't grow on trees, ya know."

Guybrush wasn't listening to him, because he could see Elaine approaching them. It didn't look like good news.

"Guess what?" she said. "I'm still dead."

"Don't worry, I'll love you even after rigor mortis sets in," said Guybrush.

"We've been gone so long, they didn't think I was coming back, so those numbskulls at city hall declared me dead at sea."

"What about me?" asked Guybrush. "Did they say anything about me?"

"No. Then they decided to sell all of my belongings and destroy the mansion."

"That's terrible.  Did they sell any of my stuff?"

"And the worst part is that they've ordered a new election for the office of Governor," continued Elaine. "So far there's only one candidate, and you know the old slogan: When there's only one candidate, there's only one-"

"Choice."

That wasn't Guybrush. Tony and Elaine hadn't spoken either. Who-

Guybrush and Elaine turned around.

Behind them stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, his chest portly with a few too many quail's eggs and truffles. His clothes alone, topped off by an immense purple hat with a feather in it, must have cost more than most pirates make in a lifetime.

He spoke, and looked, like a member of the Caribbean's pirate aristocracy. But Elaine knew every single member of this small, if affluent group, and he wasn't one of them.

"Who are you?" said Guybrush.

"The name, Mr. Threepwood, is Charles L. Charles," said Charles. Surely such a cultured voice must belong to an orchestra conductor, museum curator, or investment banker. "But you can call me the next Governor of Mêlée Island™!"

"You can't be the governor!" said Elaine.  I'm the governor, and it's a lifetime term."

"Well, that's the rub isn't it?" said Charles. "You've been declared dead."

"So I've heard.  How did THAT happen?"

Charles gestured idly. "Who can say?  Perhaps if you'd spent a little more time governing, and less time gallivanting all over the Tri-Island Area with your pet monkey, the good citizens of Mêlée wouldn't have come to the mistaken conclusion that you were pushing up the petunias."

"Wait a second... was I the pet monkey in that last sentence?" asked Guybrush suspiciously.

"Okay, we get it: you're running for governor," said Elaine, keeping her temper in check for the moment. "But why destroy my mansion?" Because there was no doubt that this guy was responsible.

"Oh, that.  When you 'died', the mansion became the property of the state. As a favor to me, the future Governor of Mêlée Island™, the town elders contracted a demolition firm-"

"That's me," piped up Tony.

"-to destroy this outdated bourgeois symbol of the elitist piratocracy."

Oh, and you're just all proletariat, right Charles? thought Elaine. 

"But why?" asked Guybrush.

"Because the days of pirate princesses ruling from secluded mansions are over, my friend," said Charles paternally.

"They are?"

"Indeed they are, lad.  If the Mêlée Island™ of tomorrow is to prosper, it must be governed by a man of the people. A man unafraid to mingle with the common folk. A man who won't hide in a mansion guarded by vicious piranha poodles."

Elaine looked at him skeptically. Oh, come on... "A man like you?"

"Precisely."

"He makes a lot of sense, Elaine," said Guybrush. "I never did like those poodles."

"Guybrush!"

"Well, I've got hands to kiss and babies to shake," said Charles. It didn't sound entirely like a joke. "Ta!" With a last wave of his hand, he turned and toddled off.

"There's something fishy about that guy," muttered Elaine, staring with slitted eyes at Charles' retreating body. Charles was pretty big and walked slowly: it took a long time for him to disappear.

"Really?  I thought he smelled more like a rotting corpse," said Guybrush. Elaine had noticed this too. It didn't fit. Charles looked perfect and sounded perfect, why should he smell like a gutter wino? Another mystery.

"I've got another plan," said Elaine.

"-with maybe a hint of oregano..." He trailed off. "Yes, dear?"

"I'm going back to City Hall to run against Charles!" said Elaine.

"Yay!  How can I help?"

"By going to Lucre Island™ to talk to the family lawyers."

Lawyers again? Guybrush sighed. "But why? I destroyed the catapult."

"Yes dearest, I know, but with that demolition order hanging over the mansion, another catapult could come at any moment! We need the kind of restraining order that only my family lawyers can provide!"

"But I want to come up with clever campaign slogans and do ops research!" complained Guybrush.

"Guybrush, love of my life, I'm a politician  Let me do what I do best, and I'll let you do what you do best."

"What's that?"

Sailing around the Tri-Island area on seemingly pointless errands, thought Elaine, then instantly rebuked herself. After all these years she'd known Guybrush, after all the nefarious puzzles she'd seen him solve, she still underestimated the guy. Pirate Rule #436, remember? "Venturing into Troubled Waters on Dangerous Quests," she said grandly.

"Well, okay then, that's more like it," said Guybrush, mollified.

"Okay, I'm off to start my campaign," said Elaine. She leaned forward and kissed him. "Don't spend too much time on Lucre Island™!"

Guybrush stood there smiling dazedly as she ran to the Mansion and darted inside. Then he came to his senses and ran for the township.

Whole lot of running going on tonight , thought Guybrush. He was running through the township, and the streets were as deserted as ever. He'd noticed something else even more disturbing: many of the shops and houses had 'Sold' signs displayed prominently. Even Ye Olde Creepy, Unlit Place for Books had one. Mêlée™ township was becoming a ghost town.

He needed a crew and ship, Guybrush knew that much. Three crew members, if his past adventures were any indication.

He also needed help. So when he passed a looming edifice lit by flaming torches and reeking of voodoo essences, Guybrush pulled up short. It was the original International House of Mojo, supplier of all things voodoo oriented. Guybrush wondered who the Voodoo Lady had hired to run the place now that she operated out of Puerto Pollo.

Guybrush decided to find out. Inside was a store filled with all the usual voodoo gunk: dead chickens, strange fluids, a curtain of hanging beads. But no sign of the proprietor. No sign of the flaming voodoo cauldron or high-backed throne he remembered, either. In their place was a tall, slightly green mirror attached to a back wall, and a huge hand rising out of the floor. Guybrush hesitantly touched it. It was slightly damp, and gave at his touch, like... rubber. Yeah, that's what it was, rubber. No doubt about it.

Guybrush noticed that the index finger looked a little different to the rest of the hand. Guybrush grimaced, shut his eyes, and pulled it.

There was a creak from the wall beside him. Guybrush opened his eyes. The mirror was revolving in front of him, swinging out of view just as a wooden chair seating a most familiar figure was swinging into view.

The Voodoo Lady. She gazed at him serenely as if she'd been waiting a lifetime for just this moment. "Ah, Guybrush. I knew you'd return. How can I help you?"

Guybrush always felt a little ambivalent about the Voodoo Lady. On the one hand, she was a familiar figure, and usually reliable. On the other hand, whenever she showed up, it seemed to be the cue for him to end up in ridiculously prolonged adventures and perilous escapades. "You seem to show up whenever I'm in trouble," said Guybrush. "Why?"

"Who can say? Perhaps it's because we share an unbreakable, magikal bond. Perhaps the fates have entwined our destinies. In any event, I'm here to help. How may I assist you, Guybrush?"

That was another thing about the Voodoo Lady - she never got his name wrong. Maybe he would be glad to have her help this time around.

He started to say something, but the Voodoo Lady beat him to it with her precognition. "My mystic eye sees precious time wasted on idle chit-chat," she said, somewhat sternly. "What would you like to know?"

"Who's this Charles L. Charles guy, and where does he get off trying to take my wife's job?"

"I'm a voodoo priestess, not a political pundit," said the Voodoo Lady. "But I will say this: Charles L. Charles gives me the willies."

"What politician doesn't?"

"True," she admitted.

Guybrush had another question. "Why is Mêlée Island™ so empty?"

"Oh, that," said the Voodoo Lady. "About a month ago, a mysterious overseas investor began buying up all of Mêlée Island™ from the local pirates. Those that wouldn't sell have been challenged to various forms of Insult Games: Insult Sword Fighting, Insult Gold, Insult Darts, Insult Arm Wrestling, you get the idea. Strangely, this investor always wins. He's the best insulter the Tri-Island Area has ever seen. Eventually, even the craftiest of Mêlée™ pirate's have been forced to sell after wagering their homes and businesses in ever-escalating rounds of Insult Gaming."

Guybrush listened to this tale patiently. "How awful," he said. "Why don't the pirates just refuse to play?"

"How many pirates do you know that can resist a duel?" answered the Voodoo Lady rhetorically. "In any event, the few pirates remaining on Mêlée Island™ live in constant fear of being challenged by this foreign investor."

This wasn't looking good for Guybrush. If everyone on Mêlée™ was moving out, where would he get a crew from? "Do you know anything more about the mysterious foreign investor?"

"Only that he comes from a faraway exotic place, called 'Sydney'."

Sounds like the name of a kid who got beat up a lot at school, thought Guybrush. "How do I get to Lucre Island™?" he asked. "I don't even know where to find it."

"That's what navigators are for, Guybrush. I believe there's one in the Scumm Bar."

Scumm Bar. Got it. Guybrush racked his brains for anything else the Voodoo Lady could help him with. "How can I help Elaine win her re-election?"

"That depends. What do you know about politics?"

"Absolutely nothing," said Guybrush.

"Then short of stuffing the ballot box, I don't see how you can help her," said the Voodoo Lady.

"Great!" said Guybrush, rising. "Better get a'stuffin!"

"But if you are caught," cautioned the Voodoo Lady, "the Mêlée™ Town Council will string up you, stuff you with crawdads, and let pirates whack you like a piñata."

Guybrush hurriedly sat back down. "Uhh... I don't think I like that idea."

"Perhaps it would be best if you steered clear of the election," suggested the Voodoo Lady. "You must allow your wife the space she needs to tend her own path."

"But what is my path?" asked Guybrush.

"That's for you to discover, but I do know that it is a path fraught with danger, voodoo, and monkeys!"

"I kind of figured it would be," said Guybrush glumly. He'd found out all he needed to know for the moment. "I don't need any more of your enigmatic hoodoo for now," he said, rising.

"As you wish, Guybrush," said the Voodoo Lady. "I'll be here later, if you need me." She sat back in her chair and swivelled out of sight.

Several minutes later, Guybrush was back inside the Scumm Bar. Nobody new had turned up while he'd been away, and the drunken sailor seemed to have lapsed into a coma.

Now, which one of these dirty rapscallions was the navigator? Guybrush decided to try the bartender first. With an eyepatch, a nose like a squashed tomato, and all those scars, he looked like he'd seen some action.

"I'm back," said Guybrush.

"That you are," said the bartender.

Guybrush decided to be conversational. "This place is quieter than a crypt full of mimes," he said.

"Isn't it a crying shame? It's been that way since that Australian blew into town. Half our regular clientele have been driven off-island by the no-good scoundrel."

"Wow," said Guybrush. He wondered if Australia was anywhere near Sydney.

"I don't know much about this Australian developer," growled the bartender, "but I'd surely love to give him a piece of my mind."

"How'd you like to join a crew of courageous pirates on a dangerous quest?" asked Guybrush.

"That sounds like fun-"

"Great!"

"Of course, I don't have any navigational experience or anything. I'll ask with my boss." He turned and shouted at the rotund pirate in the corner, who was warming his foot by the fire. "HEY, BOSS!"

"WHAT?" the boss shouted back.

"CAN I HAVE A FEW DAYS OFF TO JOIN THREEPWOOD ON A SWASHBUCKLING ADVENTURE?"

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GROG-ADDLED MIND? NO!!"

The bartender looked at Guybrush apologetically. "I guess I can't go. Darn."

Guybrush didn't mind that much: he'd lost interest when the bartender inadvertently revealed he wasn't the navigator. Surely he wasn't one of those dart-throwers. The guy in the corner looked interesting, though. He had a pirate coat on, and a wooden leg. Guybrush decided to talk to him next.

But he didn't go straight away. After all, he and Elaine had more problems than just getting a ship and a crew. Maybe while he was here he could whip up some grassroots support for Elaine! It was certainly worth a try.

First, though, he could do with some information. "I need a ship to take me to Lucre Island™," he said.

"You might want to try the Mêlée Island™ Municipal Shipyards," suggested the bartender.

"Does Stan still work there?" asked Guybrush.

"Oh, no. The whole place is run by the Harbor Mistress these days."

"Harbor... Mistress?"

"Aye," nodded the bartender. "She's very by the book, although she does have her tender side."

That answered that. Now to see how the voters were swinging...

"I've got troubles," he said to the bartender.

The bartender had replayed this scene many times before, to drunken pirate after drunken pirate. "Do tell," he said automatically.

"Some bozo named Charles L. Charles is trying to bulldoze my house," Guybrush complained.

The bartender glanced at him sharply. "Hey, don't be badmouthing Mr. Charles."

Guybrush was startled out of his faux misery. "Say what?"

"You heard me! Charles L. Charles is the future of Mêlée Island™!"

"But Charles is trying to destroy my wife's mansion!" exclaimed Guybrush. "That's got to be a crime, right?"

The bartender sniffed, making a sound like a tap being turned off. "If your wife hadn't neglected her duties for so long, she wouldn't have been declared dead, would she? Besides, the way I hear it, Charles is going to build a gigantic roller coaster over your decadent mansion."

"A roller coaster? That sounds familiar..."

"Now I ask you, what does Mêlée Island™ need more: a luxurious, tax-draining symbol of the bourgeois pirate plutocracy, or a really bitchin' cool rollercoaster?"

"That's pretty compelling," admitted Guybrush. "But Charles is just a scheming demagogue! I bet he's just telling you what you want to hear!"

"Aye, perhaps... but what if he's telling the truth, and it just happens to be what we want to hear?"

"Okay, you've got me there..." Guybrush thought of another thing. "But Charles isn't a real pirate! How can an effete snob like Charles hope to relate to the hopes and desires of a swashbuckling community like Mêlée Island™?"

"Normally, I'd agree with you," said the bartender. "But let's face it, we pirates do a pretty crummy job of governing ourselves. I think it's time for a change."

Well, that attempt at polling the electorate had certainly gone pear-shaped. "My dreams are filled with absurd, Fellini-esque images of fascistic despair," said Guybrush, the misery genuine this time.

"Well, I think you've had just about enough grog for one evening," said the bartender matter-of-factly.

"But you haven't given me any grog!"

"All the better. You'd be surprised how often I hear that."

"Really?" asked Guybrush. He didn't know there many were other Fellini fanatics out there.

"Oh, Lord yes," said the bartender emphatically. "Put a few pints of grog into just about any pirate you meet these days, and he'll start telling you about how he feels he's lost control of his life, and how it's all he can do to hold onto a world that seems to be spinning faster and faster with every passing day."

"Are you sure your grog hasn't gone bad?" asked Guybrush.

The bartender looked thoughtful. "You know, that's something to consider. Anything else you want to share?"

"Umm... on second thought, I hate listening to myself whine."

"You and me both, brother," said the bartender.

Guybrush left him and walked over to the pirate by the fire, who looked up curiously at him. He had a long, outjutting chin, twinkling beady eyes, and two of the largest, most muscle-packed biceps Guybrush had ever seen.

"Hi there, scruffy looking pirate person," said Guybrush. "I'm Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate. What's your name?"

"Cheese," said Cheese. "Ignatius Cheese. Mister Cheese."

Cheese? "How would you like to join my crew of mighty pirates, Mr. Cheese?"

"And what, pray tell, might I be findin' myself doing if I joined this crew of mighty pirates?" asked Cheese.

Guybrush thought about making up some story about ransacking villages, retrieving buried treasure, or plundering ports, but Cheese didn't look like the gullible sort. He decided to grit his teeth and tell the truth. "You'd be traveling to Lucre Island™ with a crew of cretinous buccaneers to meet with my wife's lawyers," he grudgingly admitted.

Cheese, amazingly, looked interested. "Now that sounds like a worthy mission for a Mighty Pirate Navigator like meself."

Navigator? "Really?"

"Aye," nodded Cheese. "The seas around Lucre Island™ are very treacherous, and can only be navigated by a skilled sailor. I'd love to face that challenge, but-" He broke off.

Clouds on the horizon. "But what?"

"I can't," said Cheese.

"Why not? Have you lost your nerve?"

"Listen, Skippy, I've got more nerve than a three-legged cat at a dog show!"

Whatever that means, thought Guybrush. "Well then, why can't you join my crew?"

"I've been fighting a hostile takeover from an Australian land developer," said Cheese. "He's making a grab for my bar!"

"With guns, swords and cannons?"

"Worse, with insults, gibes and mockeries! It's taken all of my Insult Arm Wrestling skill to keep him at bay!"

Well, that certainly explained the well-developed arms. "Gosh," said Guybrush. "If it weren't for the whole 'wife being declared dead' thing, I'd say that was the strangest thing I'd heard all week. What makes you think that the Scumm Bar's going to be stolen?"

"While you were away," said Cheese, "the 'Insult Sword Fighting' paradigm became attached to a whole host of other pirate pastimes."

"'Paradigm'?"

"Nowadays, you can't throw a dart or play a game of checkers without being expected to toss in a withering bon mot. My particular speciality is Insult Arm Wrestling, which I use to defend my bar from hostile takeovers."

Aha. Here was an angle he could exploit. "If I beat you at Insult Arm Wrestling, will you be my navigator?"

"Hmm. That's an interesting proposition, Threepwood," said Cheese. "How about this: If you beat me, I'll be your navigator-"

"Great!"

"-but only if you'll teach me some new insults."

That seemed like a harmless enough condition. Guybrush had mastered Insult Sword Fighting on sea and on land, and he could think fast on his feet, even if he did say so himself. "Agreed."

Cheese smiled. "Well, then... let's see what you got!" Guybrush pulled up a chair and sat down. They faced each other, elbows resting on the table, hands clenched, muscles tense. The bout began.

It soon became apparent that three lazy months at sea hadn't dulled Guybrush's wits. Cheese had a few insults up his sleeve--"Today, by myself, twelve people I've beaten"; but the responses were usually easy to guess--"From the size of your gut, I'll guess they were eaten." Two minutes later, Guybrush was able to knock Cheese's arm flat on the table.

"I won!" he shouted.

Cheese sat back amiably. "Arr, ye did. Fair and square. You've got yourself a navigator."

Just a couple of minutes later, Guybrush ran into some old friends outside the Scumm Bar.

Despite his success in convincing Cheese to join him as a navigator, Guybrush hadn't had any luck with the other pirates. The dart-throwers were too interested in their game to even consider joining his crew, and the comatose drunk didn't exactly look like the kind of competent help Guybrush was after.

So he went outside. From all he'd heard, most of the pirates had gone but some were still around. Maybe Meathook might be interested, or Captain Smirk.

There were two pirates standing outside the Town Hall, watching the street. One of them had wiry black hair, and looked somewhat bandy-legged. The other was a dark brown woman who scanned the path with a surly glare. Guybrush approached them. Their clothing was dirty and faded, and their bodies slightly gaunt. These two pirates had fallen on rough times. But something about them seemed familiar...

"Ahoy there, fellow seafaring wastrels," greeted Guybrush.

He didn't immediately understand what happened next. The two pirates looked at him, and an instant later, they'd jumped back, shrieking, eyes staring wide and hair on end.

The male pirate was the first to recover. "Sorry 'bout that," he said, looking sideways at the woman.

"You, uh, startled us," confirmed the woman, also looking sideways at her companion.

"Yeah, that's it... startled." The man laughed nervously.

"You two look awfully familiar," said Guybrush.

The woman waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, we have very common-looking faces. Isn't that right?"

"Oh, definitely," agreed the man. "Can't swing a dead Chinook around here without hitting someone who looks like us."

Both pirates were staring at him like he was infected with rabies. Guybrush decided to drop the subject for the moment. These two pirates didn't look like they had anything better to do--surely they'd be interested in being part of his crew!

"I'm putting together a crew for a mission to Lucre Island™," he said. "Wanna join?"

The man's eyes bugged out. "HOLY JUMPING MOTHER OF GOD, NO!"

"I'll take that as a 'no', then," said Guybrush, after a pause.

"You'll have to excuse my friend," said the woman. "Our last adventure on the high seas ended... badly. We're in no hurry to return."

That got Guybrush more suspicious. These two pirates were starting to remind him of a sea voyage long ago... "Didn't we share a cruise to Monkey Island™ once?" he asked.

The woman looked at him nervously. "I don't think so-"

"CARLA, MAKE THE BAD MAN STOP!" shouted the man, shrinking back from Guybrush. "HE'S COME TO TAKE US BACK TO MONKEY ISLAND™!"

"Carla?" said Guybrush. Of course!

The woman tried to look innocent. "Who?"

It didn't fool Guybrush. Fancy meeting his old friends Carla and Otis again! He hadn't seen them since hiring them to crew a ship to Monkey Island™ many years ago. Guybrush felt like engulfing them both in a big hug, but something on their faces told him they might not appreciate that at the moment.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Otis haughtily.

Carla sighed. "Let it go, Otis, the halfwit's recognized us."

"I knew you guys looked familiar. Two-thirds of my old Monkey Island™ crew!"

"The crew you abandoned on Monkey Island™, you mean!" said Otis angrily.

That didn't seem fair to Guybrush. Sure, he'd gotten back a slightly different way than they had, but he had left them the ship. In several pieces, admittedly, but it was still there!

But Carla and Otis obviously saw things differently. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to escape from Monkey Island™?" Carla said.

Guybrush shrugged.

"Um, well, it's really difficult," Carla said. "The whole experience was very traumatizing."

"Scarred us for life," added Otis.

"Gee, I'm sorry," said Guybrush.

"Yeah, well, 'sorry' doesn't feed the narwhals, buster."

These two were very pissed off. It was going to take something exceptional to convince them to join his crew. But Guybrush tried anyway. "Won't you join my crew, for old time's sake?"

"Guybrush," said Carla, "take a good look at Otis."

Otis no longer looked normal. "...monkeys...monkeys...it's full of monkeys..." he muttered, his head rapidly shaking.

"That's what happened to him the last time we agreed to be part of your crew," continued Carla. "Now what in the name of Blackbeard's Dandruff could possibly convince us to join you in another idiotic adventure?"

Aha! An opening.  Guybrush racked his brains for something he could offer them. Then he remembered he was married to Elaine. Which meant he had power, influence, the treasury, all at his fingertips. "How about... cushy government jobs!" he said.

Carla looked thoughtful. "Hmmm. That sounds interesting."

Otis stared at her madly. "Carla, what are you doing?"

Carla ignored him. "What kind of cushy government jobs are we talking about."

Guybrush smiled; job details made themselves up on the spot. "You know, the kind where you're paid three times the going private sector rate, no-one checks your work, and it's impossible to be fired!"

"Don't listen to him, Carla," said Otis desperately. "He just wants to take us back to Monkey Island™!"

"We'd want contracts, of course," said Carla.

Guybrush thought of Elaine, working away in the Mansion. Would she back him up with an appropriate contract? He thought so. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

But Guybrush didn't go straight back. First, he made a trip to the Municipal Shipyards, formerly Stan's Shipyards, where he got to meet the Harbor Mistress. She was quite fat and, apart from making wisecracks at Guybrush's expense, not in the least bit jolly. "I can see no reason to give you permission to take one of my boats," she said, and nothing Guybrush said could convince her otherwise.

"You're not helping," he said.

"Helping is not part of my job description," answered the Harbor Mistress.

So Guybrush turned tail and headed for Elaine's Mansion. No, our Mansion, he corrected himself. A voice nagged away in his head, saying that in the old days he'd have solved ten puzzles like these all on his own, and before midnight. But mostly Guybrush was glad he could rely on Elaine's help.

He found her downstairs, sitting at a table reading a thick legal tome. She looked so focused on her work that he didn't want to disturb her for the moment. Guybrush went looking through a desk instead, and found a contract. Most of the writing was impenetrably dense, both in the visual and linguistic senses, but the title was interesting: Cushy Government Job. Guybrush found another and shut the drawer.

There was a line on each contract for a signature. So Guybrush walked over to Elaine and showed her the contracts. Elaine looked up from her work. "What's this for?" she asked.

"I need it to convince reluctant rapscallions to join my crew," said Guybrush.

"Can't you just use your blinding charisma to cajole them into joining you?"

"I think I used up all my charisma on the honeymoon," said Guybrush.

Elaine sighed. "Just let me sign it." After she'd signed the contracts, she added, "When you get back from Lucre Island™, we're going to have a long talk about civic ethics."

"One more thing," said Guybrush. "I'm having a little trouble getting a ship."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't have the authority to requisition one," he admitted. "Can you believe that? Me? There must be a bunch of new people around here since we left."

Elaine got up and took something out from a cupboard. "Here, take this," she said, handing the thing to Guybrush. "It should give you an air of authority." It was a wooden figurine with a wide base and narrow stem, which fitted neatly into his hand. It looked, and felt, like a wooden stamp, the kind you used to mark VOID on documents in bright red ink.

"What's this doohickey?"

"It's the official Gubernatorial Symbol of Mêlée Island™," said Elaine. "It conveys the authority of the office of Governor." She grinned at him conspiratorially. "It also gets the holder into some really great parties."

"A true pirate doesn't need some 'gubernatorial symbol' to prove he commands respect!" said Guybrush.

"All the same, I think you better take it," said Elaine after a brief pause. "Just give it back the minute you return from Lucre Island™."

"No problem, plunder bunny," said Guybrush.

"Honey pumpkin." They kissed.

As he left, Guybrush glanced up at a portrait on the wall. It was Elaine's grandfather, Horatio T. Marley, shown a few years before his yacht was sucked into a whirlpool off Australia. Somehow he thought Horatio would approve of the current owners of his Mansion.

With the authority of the Gubernatorial symbol in his hand, and Elaine Marley as his wife, Guybrush confidently strode out into the night.

Carla and Otis were still hanging around where he'd seen them last. Guybrush showed the contracts to Carla. She took them and cast an expert eye over the details. "Wow, you've actually got us a signed contract," she said, noticing the fresh ink at the bottom. Then she read in silence, occasionally saying something like "Let's see", "...hmmm, yes...", "uh huh", "ah, good..."

"Um, Carla, do you even know what half of that stuff means?" asked Otis.

"Not a clue," said Carla. "But look, it says 'Cushy' in the title!"

"Well, all right then!" said Otis.

Carla gave a contract to Otis and rolled hers up. "All right, Threepwood, you've got yourself a crew."

Guybrush rounded up Cheese, and a few minutes later, they were at the Municipal shipyards. Now it was time to turn the tables on the Harbor Mistress.

She looked dismissively at him as he approached. "I told you, you don't have the authority to-"

Guybrush whipped out the Gubernatorial symbol from behind his back. "Check this out," he said.

"What's this?"

"The Gubernatorial Seal of Mêlée Island™," said Guybrush. He grinned.

"Oh, I see." The Harbor Mistress hmmmed, but there wasn't any arguing with the wooden symbol held in Guybrush's hand. "Well, I guess you are an important person," she said. "Right this way, Mrs. Marley. Let me show you to your ship."

Guybrush looked back at his crew, who hadn't paid any attention to this little byplay, then followed the Harbor Mistress. She was standing in front of a particularly bright ship, and Guybrush realized with horror that she wasn't moving on. This was their ship.

"This," said the Harbor Mistress (who'd regained her sardonic smile) "is the Dainty Lady."

Guybrush could only gape. The ship she was indicating had a pretty wooden female figurehead, and if it perhaps had too much clothing on for a pirate vessel, Guybrush could live with that. But otherwise, this ship made their honeymoon vessel look like a tough-as-nails warrior of the sea. Because... oh God...

"It's... pink!" he spluttered.

"You've obviously got a seaman's eyes for nautical details," said the Harbor Mistress.

"But it's pink!" said Guybrush. Not faded lilac, not a gutsy pale blood red, but bright cheerful Barbie-doll pink.

There was no way he was going to live this down.

 "Now, there are a couple of regulations that I'm required to explain to you," she said, taking an obvious delight in his discomfort. "First, bring it back in the same (or better) condition as it is now. Second, life preservers are to be worn by all crew and passengers at all times. Finally, this vehicle is to be used for official purposes only, so no joyriding!"

"Can I go now?" asked Guybrush.

"Well, I'd love to hang out here on the docks with you all day," said the Harbor Mistress. "Actually that's a lie, I can't stand to be near you. Bye!" She waddled back along the docks. Coming the other way were his reluctant crew. Guybrush wished there was a nearby hole he could hide in.

"Is that the ship?" said Otis.

"It doesn't look very seaworthy," said Cheese.

"Are you guys ready to go?" asked Guybrush. Maybe they could give it a paint job on Lucre Island™...

"Aye, Cap'n," said Cheese.

"Whatever," shrugged Carla.

"No."

"Don't make me slap you, Otis."

Otis sighed. "Fine, then let's get this over with."

Nobody sounded very eager to get underway. For some reason, this cheered Guybrush up. "Then we're off to Lucre Island™, in search of high adventure and a legally binding restraining order!"

"It'll all end in tears, mark my words," said Otis gloomily.

LUCRE ISLAND™

Guybrush always loved to be back out on the open ocean.

It didn't matter that he'd only recently gotten back from a long cruise.  Or that his crew was surly (Carla, Otis) and a little strange (Cheese). They were doing the work, and he could kick back and relax, with only the worry that some other pirate vessel might come alongside them and die laughing at the paint job. Fortunately, there was less chance of this happening late at night, with the moon only half-full and shipboard lighting kept to a minimum.

All of this meant Guybrush had time to think. And he was troubled.

It had been too easy.

Somehow it beggared belief that, just as they'd gotten back from a three month honeymoon, they should find someone hurling boulders at their mansion. The timing was too neat. Guybrush remembered that their front yard had been littered with boulders; but the mansion was untouched. And yet when the catapult operator had to hit a specific target - the cactus -- he made a bullseye. So he wasn't incompetent.

Perhaps they'd only been meant to think the mansion was under threat.

But why? Guybrush had no answer.

Did it have something to do with this mysterious Australian land developer? Or Charles L. Charles (whomever he might be). Or both?

Guybrush shivered in the cool air. He wished he was back on Mêlée Island™. He had a feeling Elaine might be in more danger than she suspected. As he headed below deck for the sleeping quarters, he thought, hopefully I'll be back soon enough.

KKKRRRAAAACCKKKKK!

A loud splintering sound, and the sudden jolt of his entire ship, woke Guybrush the next morning. He jumped out of bed. Were they under attack? Still wearing his pirate clothes Guybrush ran up the ladder and across the deck. There, floating in the water beside the ship, were a number of planks. Cannon fire! They'd been hit! Then Guybrush realized that they were only a few metres offshore, that the planks were non-pink and didn't belong to his ship, and that they'd in fact ploughed right into the Lucre Island pier.

Several minutes later, he gathered his crew together on the same pier. The ... Dainty Lady (Guybrush still shivered at the name) was now floating normally, and most of the pier wreckage had been tidied up. "There you go, Mr. Marley," said Cheese. "Lucre Island™."

"Ah, Lucre Town," said Guybrush. "The largest urban center in the Tri-Island area." He looked pointedly at his navigator. "Thanks, Mr. Cheese. Do you think next time we could get here with a little less drama?"

"There's not going to be a next time, is there?" Otis whined.

"Better not be! Once was enough," said Carla.

Guybrush pointed over his shoulder. "I'm going into town. You guys stay here and watch the ship."

"Oh, sure," said Otis. "I see how it is. The captain gets to make all the decisions." But he didn't make any further complaints, and soon Guybrush was walking into Lucre Town. Behind him, Cheese went back to his repair work, while Otis and Carla wandered off elsewhere.

Lucre Town was most impressive. Guybrush didn't think of himself as a hick by any means, but walking along the expensively-paved streets, past towering, ornately decorated buildings, through a commercial district that just seemed to go on and on and on, he felt distinctly out of place. Pirates were supposed to steal money, not make it. Then he remembered he was meant to be meeting some lawyers, and he got more nervous still. Lawyers, at least, were pirates, though of a rather different nature.

But apart from his natural aversion to the place, Guybrush got the impression that not all was well here. There were very few pirates walking the street. Granted, this was early morning, but a place like Lucre Town should hum and bustle with organized activity. At the moment, it didn't. Did everybody work indoors? It didn't seem likely, as many of the stores he passed were shut.

Eventually, after passing a bait store, jailhouse, courthouse, walking-stick store, prosthetic parts store, bank, town hall, fountain, and perfume streetseller, Guybrush found the lawyers. They were in the law offices building, next to the bank. Guybrush pushed the heavy door open and gingerly stepped inside.

It was cool, dim and quiet. Immensely tall bookshelves lined the walls, shelves bending under the weighty legal tomes. Guybrush got a look at some of the titles: Law Practice for Dummies, Statutes and Regulations of Lucre Island™, To Kill a Mockingbird... and Get it Reduced to Manslaughter. Better a lifetime of illiteracy than having to read any of these doorstops.

To his right, three people were talking to each other in low voices, their words echoing off the walls. They were seated at a long table, and wore black academic gowns and funny white wigs on their heads. They looked like ravens, and immediately Guybrush wished he hadn't thought that.

"Um," said Guybrush nervously, "is this-"

The lawyers looked up at him. "Come in!" they said, all smiles and angular noses. Guybrush came forward a little. From here, he could read their name tags. Nice personal touch, he thought. The lawyer on the left was called Whipp, the middle lawyer was called Thrawtle, and the one on the right was named Digg.

 "What can we do for you?" asked Thrawtle. He spoke with the authority of all his legal expertise, though that was leavened somewhat by what must have been a lifetime spent indoors.

"I was told you guys could help me," said Guybrush.

"Of course we can!" said Whipp.

"What is it?" asked Thrawtle. "Wrongful dismemberment?"

Guybrush pulled up a barrel (no fancy seats for the customers, nothing like the regal high-backed mahogany chairs the lawyers were sitting in) and sat down.

"Hit and run dinghy accident?" suggested Digg. They all sounded like each other.

"Er, no," said Guybrush. "I need you to see if you can save my house from being destroyed."

Thrawtle looked at him oddly. "That doesn't sound very lucrative."

"Did I mention that my house is the mansion on Mêlée Island™?" said Guybrush.

The lawyers brightened up at this. "The Governor's Mansion, you say. Well, that changes things."

"But you can't be the Governor," said Digg, conveying just a hint of respectful disapproval of Guybrush's appearance and demeanor.

Guybrush ignored it. "I'm here representing the honorable Elaine Marley-Threepwood, Governor of the Tri-Island area." Time to show them a bit of authority. He stood up, looked statesmanlike and said, "She's my wife."

The lawyers looked at him. "Oh, I get it," said Whipp.

"He's joking about the wife thing,"said Thrawtle.

"And people think lawyers have no sense of humor!" chortled Digg.

"You know, it's illegal to make such wrongful-"

"-and preposterous!-"

"-claims."

"Should we sue him?" asked Whipp.

"How much money do you think he has?"

The likely answer, 'Not a lot', was forestalled by Guybrush protesting, "I'm serious! We just got back from our honeymoon. Three glorious months on the high seas. And when we returned, we found the mansion under siege by a dastardly demolitionist!"

"Is this alleged demolitionist wealthy?" asked Digg.

"Hmm, yes... we could sue them..."

"...put a lien on their catapult..."

"...file a writ of Habeas Moneyus..."

This legal mumbo jumbo meant nothing to Guybrush. "Wouldn't you rather go after the big bucks?" he said. "If Elaine wins the election, she'll be a powerful person. And if the mansion is saved, she'll have someone to thank." He looked at the lawyers, and made some back-and-forth motions with his hand. "And if that person is you..."

"We would be given a lot of money?" said Whipp.

"Not given, earned," corrected Thrawtle.

Digg shook his head. "Think outside the juror's box, my esteemed colleagues. We could become the 'Official Lawyers of the Tri Island Area™!'"

Whipp agreed. "Yes, the 'Preferred Legal Team of the Governor's Office™'.

The lawyers were a lot more agreeable now. "What do you need from us, young fellow?" asked Thrawtle.

Guybrush didn't exactly know. "I don't know," he said uncertainly. "You handled Grampa Marley's estate, right?"

"Right," answered the lawyers.

"Did he have a plan for such a crisis?"

"Nope," answered the lawyers.

"But," added Thrawtle, "we'll get right on it!" The other two agreed.

"Ok, I'll wait," said Guybrush.

"Actually, this may take a while," said Whipp.

"Legal issues can be quite complicated..."

"...and take a lot of research," said Thrawtle. "Isn't there something else you could do for a while? See the island, take in the sights."

"Um, I guess so," said Guybrush, not all that eager to explore Lucre Town further. He turned to leave, but Thrawtle stopped him.

"Oh, hey," he said. "You might as well take this." Thrawtle opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He held it out to Guybrush.

Guybrush reached over the table and took it. The paper was old and thin, and covered in spirally, fading handwriting. "What is it?"

"It's a letter from Grampa Marley," said Digg.

"It was supposed to be delivered after his granddaughter got married," said Whipp. "Now begone! We have work to do!"

Outside, Guybrush was briefly faced with a moral dilemma.

Should he read the letter? Obviously, it had been intended for Elaine; but if it was meant to be delivered after she got married, then it was probably intended for him as well. Besides, it wasn't in an envelope or anything - he could hardly help it if he happened to see some of it.

He read the letter:

My dearest Elaine,

If you are reading this, then you are married, and I am dead. Now that you've finally settled down with a fearless pirate husband, it's time for you to claim the final pieces of your family's heritage. At the Lucre Island™ Municipal Bank, you'll find a safe deposit chest under my name. Among other things, the chest contains the deed to the Marley Mansion. Never lose sight of this deed. Furthermore, the chest also contains my wedding gifts to you. I'm sorry that I was unable to deliver them in person, but I go to my grave confident that you've chosen a man I would be proud to call 'grandson.'

Lastly, and most importantly, the chest contains the keys to the most terrifying secret in the Caribbean; a secret ten times as terrifying as Big Whoop.  The Secret of... The ULTIMATE INSULT!

If the unholy power of the Ultimate Insult ever found its way into the wrong hands, there's no telling what sorts of heck-spawned mischief could be unleashed upon our fun-loving pirate citizens! Guard these secrets with your life, and know that, no matter where you are, your grandfather is watching over you.

With all my love,

Horatio Torquemeda Marley.

P.S. If your deadbeat parents come around looking for a handout, tell 'em to take a long walk off a short gangplank!

Guybrush folded the letter away in his coat pocket, feeling rather special. He wondered where Horatio was these days.

The bit about the deed was also quite interesting. Guybrush wasn't inclined to pay much attention to the cryptic warnings about an "ultimate insult": probably the old guy had been getting a bit senile by then. But with the deed he could get the lawyers fast-tracked on saving their mansion. Maybe they could even be sailing back in a few hours! He located the bank and headed indoors.

The Lucre Island™ bank, like the lawyers' office, was quiet and dim. Metal framework and heavily varnished wood gleamed in the muted yellow candlelight. Potted ferns and banking literature arrayed on a low table set the mood. Guybrush walked forward, to the snaking queue demarcated by polished brass posts and velvet cordon rope.

There were two people behind the counter: a short, bald, egg-shaped man in a pressed shirt and suspenders, looking nearsightedly through a pair of thick spectacles at an open ledger; and a pretty young teller beside him, smiling like someone with a head full of helium. There was also a man in front of the counter. Dressed in a red overcoat, he leaned his slightly stocky body on a cane for support. Guybrush couldn't tell any more about him because he was facing the other way.       

He did sound irate, however. "... and just why not, young lady?" he was asking. The man had an accent Guybrush found hard to place. It was harsh and guttural, and made him think of deserts and goannas.

"Bank policy, sir," said the teller. " I can't convert these traveler's checks because we've never heard of, what's this name?  'Aus-tra-li-a.'"

Guybrush tightened up: Australia? Could this be the mysterious property developer? What was he doing here?

"But you've honored them countless times before!" protested the man.

"We've had a bad run of counterfeit money come through here lately, so we've had to tighten our policy," said the teller. She giggled. "And if you ask me, these don't look real. Besides the funny name, there's a picture of a strange animal on here, that has another one popping out of its belly." She giggled again.

"That's a kangaroo, you ignorant pirate trollop!" snarled the man.

"See, there you go," laughed the teller. "'Kangaroo.'  Another funny name.  Fun to say, too.  Kangaroo.  Kangaroo..." She turned the unfamiliar syllables over in her mouth.

"Blimey!" The man suddenly took his cane and, in a fit of rage, broke it over one raised knee. "I've got business to attend to, but I'll come back, and when I do, I want these honored!!!"

The man turned and brushed impatiently past Guybrush. Guybrush only got the briefest glimpse of his face - it was rectangular, with tangled dark hair framing all four sides. Two thick eyebrows overhung his narrow-set, wrinkly eyes. The skin of his forehead and cheeks was parched and lined with age. A real ugly mug.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Mandrill," said the teller, oblivious to reality. She started reciting those fun syllables again. "Kangaroo.  Kangaroo?  Kangaroo..."

Mr. Mandrill rushed out of the building, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the calendar.

"He should switch to decaf," said Guybrush. He decided not to worry about him for the moment: a mistake he would very shortly regret.

Guybrush stepped up in front of the teller. With her uniform neat and spotless and not a single blonde hair out of place, she looked like a model who'd stepped right out of a brochure and taken her place behind the counter... only forgetting to bring her intelligence with her. Reading her nametag, Guybrush was not particularly surprised to learn her name was Brittany

"Hi there," said Guybrush.

"Welcome to the Second Bank of Lucre," said Brittany. "How may I help you?"

"I would like to retrieve some items from my safe deposit box," said Guybrush.

"Fine, sir.  And whose name is it under?"

"Marley.  H. T. Marley. Here's a letter that might help."

Brittany took a quick look at the letter. "I see.  This is for a Governor Marley.  Do you have power of attorney to act on her behalf?"

Guybrush struck a heroic profile. "I'm her dashing husband!"

"Not good enough," said Brittany.

"Oh, well, there is this..." He showed her the Gubernatorial symbol.

"Oh my!" gasped Brittany. "That will be fine, sir. Just a moment." She turned to the pudgy fellow beside her. "Mr. Quidworth?  There's a gentleman here to use the vault."

Mr. Quidworth looked up from his ledger. With a glance he sized up Guybrush, then motioned him behind the counter. They walked together to a wide, thick metal door at the back of the room.
                Mr. Quidworth spun the lock. "If you'll just follow me into the vault," he said cheerily, "we can open up your grandfather-in-law's safe deposit chest."

The door swung open on greased hinges, heavy and powerful and silent. Cool, clinically clean air breezed past them as they walked inside. The three interior walls of the safe were lined with locked drawers. Mr. Quidworth struggled with the lock of one, before swinging it open and lugging out a big, old-style treasure chest. "Ummph. Aaah. Well, here it is, sir: the safe deposit chest of H.T. Marley, just as he left it over twenty years ago." His voice echoed in the tight enclosed space. Mr. Quidworth set the chest down on a handy table (for some reason it also had a sword on it) and swung open the lid.

Guybrush came round to marvel at the contents. "Wow! What an amazing collection of... junk." He lifted a rubber chicken (pulleyless) out of the chest: most of the remaining contents were similarly odd. "Why would Grampa Marley store garbage like this in a bank?"

"That Governor Marley was an eccentric old salt, wasn't he?" said Mr. Quidworth. "We were all crushed when he disappeared off the face of the earth like he did. Anyway, well, I've got some loans to turn down. You just let me know when you're done here and I'll come running." He left a oil lamp on the table for illumination, then turned and waddled out.

"Gee... thanks," said Guybrush. Time to start looking for the deed. Nothing in here looked applicable, but maybe it was hidden deeper down. Hmm, let's see now...

While he rummaged through the heirlooms, Guybrush could hear noise coming from the front counter. Another customer must have come in. Guybrush caught a few phrases - something about a "Grog machine" - but he was too intent on objects before him. He pulled aside a pair of wax lips (wax lips?) and saw an old document with a wax seal. Ah, there it was-

A gun was cocked in front of him. "Stick 'em up!" barked a harsh metallic voice.

"Yikes!" blurted Guybrush. His head whipped up.

At first, he had the strangest impression someone had wheeled a mirror in here. Standing in front of him was... himself. Same height, same hair, same clothes even. But the guy in front of him was wearing a wig, his Guybrush-face was a paper mask over a strangely flat face, and his right hand held the longest, meanest-looking pistol Guybrush had ever seen.

"Who are you supposed to be?" said Guybrush, confused. Behind the intruder he could see the still-open vault door, and beyond that Brittany and Mr. Quidworth. This guy must have gotten past them by pretending to be Guybrush. Guybrush thought about screaming for help, but this guy would probably shoot him before he even got to the second letter.

"Isn't it obvious?" said the intruder, pointing at the mask. "I'm Guybrush Threepwood!"

"No you're not!" said Guybrush.

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, for one thing, Guybrush is much better looking than you are," said Guybrush. He suddenly smelt the man. Swamp mud, rotted fish and other weird smells were fairly wafting off him. "And for another the REAL Guybrush doesn't smell like anchovy halitosis. Whew!"

"All right, me bucko, that's enough of that!" said the man.  He levelled the pistol at Guybrush's face. "Back away from the Marley heirlooms, and be quick about it!" He leant forward like a guy itching for a fight.

Guybrush had an aversion to struggling with armed assailants. He quickly backed away.  The man seemed satisfied by this. "Now, Mister Threepwood, take a good long look at the last face you'll ever see." He reached up and pulled away the mask.

His face was horribly scarred, partly around the cheeks, but mainly around his nose.  The man had no nose. All that was left were two narrow, dark holes, bits of the nostril that had no doubt once been surrounded by skin and cartilage, but were now exposed to the air.

Guybrush flinched. The man laughed at his reaction. Still covering Guybrush with the pistol, he took the chest in one arm, then turned and ran, slamming the vault door shut behind him.

Immediately, Guybrush took stock of his surroundings. There were a few dried up sea sponges on the floor (having been tossed out of the chest), the sword on the table, a bottle of old, fine grog, and a music box.  This was all he had to engineer his escape. And there was no chance he could just wait it out while the bandit escaped, as even now the smoke from the oil lamp was starting to gather near the ceiling.

Outside the vault, a tremendous commotion had erupted. He heard thuds, screams, and blasts of gunfire. Having taken the heirlooms, the bandit was now after the petty cash. He must have put his Guybrush mask back on, for Guybrush could hear him yelling out, "I'm Guybrush Threepwood!"

This blatant misrepresentation finally jolted Guybrush into action. He picked up the sword and ran forward, like a guy in the middle of a battlefield. The vault door was very firmly shut in front of him, with no means of opening it from the inside, but a pair of hinges was plainly visible. These Guybrush attacked, using the sword as a lever to pull the hinges out of the door. The topmost hinge broke, also snapping the sword in half. Using the now shorter, slightly thicker sword, Guybrush went after the newly-created gap between vault door and jamb. Pushing and scraping, he was able to widen it slightly, leaving the metal vault door slightly bent. But it stayed firm.

Outside, the noise was getting even louder, as the local constabulary arrived on the scene. Guybrush looked around for inspiration, and found it. He dropped the sword and took the three sea sponges. One he jammed in tight at the top of the wide crack. The second went in the bottom. The third, and by far the largest, he pushed as far back into the crack as he possibly could. He roughly grabbed the bottle of grog, twisted the cap, and poured it all over the sponges.

The sponges ate up the liquid greedily. They deepened in color, their parched surfaces gradually becoming smoother. Then they expanded. Accompanied by teeth-grinding metallic whines and screeches, the crack widened and lengthened. The door was starting to shake. Then the bottom hinge broke off, and the door swung open.

The space beyond was pitch black.

Well, not totally. A little light came from the lamp behind him, and some was seeping in around the edges of curtained windows. But it didn't matter, as Guybrush couldn't see a thing. Every source of light had been extinguished.

Where was the bandit? Even as he wondered this, he heard him, somewhere else in the room. "So long, suckers!" he shouted. "And remember, you've all been robbed by Guybrush Threepwood!" There was a rustle and a banging sound. Then silence.

"Hey, where'd he go?" said Guybrush. Instantly he was jumped on by four people. "Here he is!" shouted one. "GET HIM!" added another.  He was grabbed and held tightly. Someone slapped something hard around his wrist. "You're under arrest, Mr. Threepwood," said somebody. "It's down to the jailhouse with you." Then somebody pulled open a curtain, and Guybrush saw that the men who'd jumped him were the local constabulary, and that he'd just been handcuffed.

Several hours later...

Guybrush hated prisons.

He hated visiting them; somehow he always felt uncomfortable being out there free and safe with all these poor souls locked up. And naturally it was no fun being on the other side of the bars.

At the moment he doubly hated them, as not only was he supposedly on the 'free' side of the bars, he was still a prisoner... or at least that was what Inspector Canard seemed to be saying.

They were standing together in the torture room. Flanked by iron maidens, wall-mounted shackles and shelves of nasty metal equipment (some of them blood-tipped), Inspector Canard was a tall, green-coated fellow who was not offering Guybrush any favors. Instead, he was giving him a severe talking to.

"All right, you," said Inspector Canard in his plodding, no-nonsense voice. "Didn't your mum ever explain that bank robbery isn't nice?"

"It wasn't me!" Guybrush pleaded for what seemed like the tenth time. "It was the no-nosed bandit!"

"Right," said Inspector Canard. "No-nosed bandit.  Or, perhaps it was the guy we caught red-handed. You! Although we haven't found the loot yet." He didn't sound particularly put out by this.

"You'll find it with the real robber!" exclaimed Guybrush. "So let me go, and get cracking!"

"Detective work isn't my job," said Inspector Canard. "If you want to clear your name, you've got a few things to do."

Guybrush was beyond complaining now. "OK, what," he said resignedly.

Inspector Canard ticked the items off on his fingers. "I need the perpetrator. I need proof he was at the scene of the crime. And I need proof that he committed the crime."

"You know, it would be a lot easier if I could just bribe you," said Guybrush.

Inspector Canard's expression never changed. "I'll ignore that, Threepwood.  Around here, we do things by the book. Now, since this is your first offense, you will be placed under house arrest."

"I get to go back to the mansion and play with Timmy?" asked Guybrush hopefully.

"No.  You are confined to Lucre Island™.  You are not permitted to leave until and unless you are cleared of the crime of bank robbery. To make sure you don't leave, you are required to wear the Voodoo Anklet of Extreme Discomfort™."

"I was wondering about that," admitted Guybrush. Around his right ankle was a wide, heavy golden anklet. Its interior rim was pointed and sharp, with the tips of metal brushing his skin as he walked. "It's rather uncomfortable, can you loosen it?" He wondered how it worked. Electric jolts up his leg? Voodoo poison administered through the metal needles? He wasn't very keen to find out.

"That wouldn't be the point, then would it?" said Inspector Canard. "It gets a lot more uncomfortable if you try to leave the island."

Guybrush sighed. "At least I'm not in jail."

Unlike Otis.

Some "old guy with a weird accent," had accused him of stealing flowers from his front yard, or at least that was what Otis was claiming. No first-time lenience for him - he was shut up tight behind bars. The situation aroused some rather unpleasant memories for Guybrush. For some reason he was reminded of the smell of breath mints. Inspector Canard, at least, could see the funny side: asked when Otis might be released, he said, "About the same time you prove your (snort) innocence."

There was nothing else Guybrush could do for Otis. So he decided to have another shot at reasoning with Inspector Canard. "I'm innocent!" he said. "It was the no-nosed pirate that robbed the bank!"

"Who, Pegnose Pete?" said Inspector Canard.

That surprised Guybrush. So he had a name now. One that was apparently well known to the local police. This was a good start.

Inspector Canard, though, was having none of it. "Listen, if I had a monkey for every time some penny-ante crook tried to pin their criminal malfeasance on Pegnose Pete, I'd have enough monkeys to work out a reasonable sequel to Hamlet by now."

"So what you're saying is that you don't believe me," said Guybrush.

"No."

"Why don't you believe that Pegnose Pete robbed the bank?"

"Because, Mr. Threepwood, it's just not Pegnose's style. If Pegnose had robbed the bank, he would have snuck in under cover of darkness-"

That's how he snuck OUT, thought Guybrush.

"-used a clever system of weights and pulleys to open the vault, and would have absconded with the loot without leaving a trace of his presence. Pegnose Pete would never simply enter a bank in the middle of the day, waving a pistol around like a common thug... it's beneath him."

"Just for the sake of argument," said Guybrush. "What would it take to prove my innocence?"

"Well, since you don't have an alibi," said Inspector Canard, "you'd have to turn the finger of blame towards the 'real' culprit."

"Great!  Uh, how do I do that?"

"Off the top of my head, I can think of three things that would do the job A) New evidence would have to surface, linking the so-called 'real' perpetrator to the crime; 2) The stolen bank loot would have to be recovered; and Z) The 'real' criminal would have to be caught and brought to justice."

"That should be a piece of cake for a pirate with a keen analytical mind like myself," said Guybrush confidently.         

"I'll keep your cell warm," said Inspector Canard.

So that was what he had to do. Walking to the door, Guybrush had the feeling of being much deeper in trouble than he'd ever expected. He'd been framed, very skillfully, by someone with great reserves of intelligence and power. There was an intricate plot he had to uncover, and his pirating skills would not be of any great use for the moment. Perhaps it was time for Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate to lay low for a while.

Enter: Guybrush Threepwood, Private Eye.

As I stumbled out of the jailhouse, the sun stabbed into my eyes like the fifth drink too many. Just my luck to get the one straight pig on the force: they don't call this Lucre Town for nothing. I shaded my eyes and looked around. There. She was standing by the fountain. The bank teller. You don't have to get up that early in the morning to fool me--I'm a late riser--but it was getting on to midday now and some things just didn't fit. She'd put on a convincing village-idiot act back in the bank... a little too convincing. And now she's here, keeping an eye on the jailhouse. Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidence.

I walked toward her, real casual. The thing with dames is, you gotta win their respect. Gotta be a man. Otherwise they'll hang your balls out to dry without a second thought. No malice in it; it's just the way they are. I swallowed and spat, getting ready to deepen my voice. Dames always respond to the male voice of authority.

She saw me; she looked coolly at me. I looked coolly back...

"Why hello there, Brittany," said Guybrush smoothly.

She looked goggle-eyed at him. "Oh, hi. Why do you sound like a sick kraken?"

"Oh, sorry," said Guybrush more normally.  "Sorry you lost your job."

"Oh, it's all right," said Brittany. "I didn't like working at the bank very much anyway. I was getting too wrapped up in the whole financial... system... thing."

Perhaps it wasn't an act.  Guybrush hurriedly said goodbye and made his way to the bank. Time to see if Pegnose had left any evidence of his crime behind.

But when he reached the Bank, Guybrush found he had a problem.  Mr Quidworth was standing outside the door. He looked a little strange out in the open, like a mole lost in the concrete jungle. He looked at Guybrush very crossly.

"Hey there, Moneybags!" said Guybrush good-naturedly.

"Very funny, Mr. Threepwood. Are you enjoying the money you stole?"

"Hey! I'm innocent! It was the no-nosed man!"

"Yeah, right. And I'm a twenty karat broach," said Mr. Quidworth. "Now I'm broke, and nobody on this island will trust me with their money ever again." He sniffed miserably.

"When are you going to reopen the bank?" asked Guybrush.

"Inspector Canard won't let me inside," said Mr. Quidworth. "So, even if I could afford to reopen it, I'm not allowed."

"Let's break in!" suggested Guybrush.

Mr. Quidworth looked up at him haughtily. "Unlike you, I respect authority and law. No one will enter the bank until the crime is solved."

"Then why are you hanging around here?" quizzed Guybrush. "You look kind of suspicious."

"I didn't rob the bank, if that's what you're insinuating."

"I don't know... most robberies are inside jobs," said Guybrush.

"Maybe. But all criminals return to the scene of the crime, and here you are," said Mr. Quidworth.

Guybrush walked off nonchalantly.  While casting his eye all around him, he still managed to discover that all of the bank windows were shut, and presumably locked. Once out of sight of Mr. Quidworth, he tried one, and found his suspicions confirmed. Then he saw a possible point of entry. High up in one wall, at about the level of the bank's loft, a pair of window frames hung open to the air. Even better, they were out of sight of the jailhouse, so Inspector Canard wouldn't catch him going in that way. Unfortunately the wall was sheer and there was no way he could get in, not without a pole vault or something.

He kept looking, and got another idea. In the ground next to the bank was a manhole cover. Lucre Town must have a sewage system. Perhaps he could get in that way! Guybrush lifted up the manhole cover, almost giving himself a hernia in the process, and recoiled at the smell that wafted out. It was putrid. That, and the fact that the hole became pitch-dark about two feet down, was enough to convince Guybrush that entering the sewers might not be such a good idea, after all.

Guybrush was out of ideas for the moment. He looked around. Maybe he should start asking some people if they'd seen Pegnose Pete running off with a stash of loot. Get some eyewitness testimony. He saw a nearby shop: Palace o' Prostheses. The guy in there had a perfect line of sight to the Second Lucre Bank. Guybrush headed over.

Guybrush Threepwood, Private Eye entered the Palace o' Prostheses and immediately felt uncomfortable. All around him were wooden legs, rubber arms, plaster heads, like an organ donor bank for androids. There was an unpleasant oily smell in the air, and some of the prostheses had the sour, off-white color of... porcelain (shudder). Then he saw the proprietor, standing motionless behind the counter, and got a start.

The man had eyepatches over both eyes.

It dawned on Guybrush that the guy was blind. Well. No chance of getting any eye-witness testimony from him. But it'd be rude to just back out of his shop, so Guybrush walked forward tentatively. No reaction from the man.

"Um... hi?" said Guybrush.

"Welcome to the Palace of Prostheses," said the man, at last taking notice of him. "Home of the No-Detection, No-Infection, No-Rejection 30-day Guarantee! You smell new. Who are you? I'm Dave. Round here they call me Deadeye Dave."

"I'm Guybrush Threepwood, mighty pirate!" said Guybrush.

"You don't smell so mighty to me," said Dave.

"What?"

"In fact, you smell kind of flowery..."

"What?"

"Heck, I can smell your Lilacs-n-Lilies aftershave even through my stuffy nose. Now then, what kind of prostheses did you have in mind?"

So it was that fifteen minutes later, Guybrush left the Palace o' Prostheses not with some incriminating eyewitness testimony, but with a stretchy pink piece of prosthetic skin. The edges had little hooks in them for 'easy attachment', making the whole piece rather like a mini trampoline mat.

This gave Guybrush an idea. He returned to the bank, and stood by the open sewer hole. With a bit of fiddling, he was able to stick the skin over the hole, using the hooks to secure it tightly. Guybrush looked up at the open window above, took a deep breath, and jumped on the skin.

Stretched nylon-tight, the prosthetic skin threw him into the air. On the first bounce, his head came level with the open window. On the next two, his waist came level to the window. On the fourth bounce, Guybrush hurled himself forward, his upper body shooting clean through the window before his hips struck the lower edge, bringing him up cold and tumbling him to the floor just inside the bank.

Very slowly, Guybrush got up. His muscles groaned.

Fortunately, he hadn't fallen very far. A small mezzanine had been built around two walls of the bank (rather like the storekeeper's place on Mêlée Island™), precisely at the level of the window he'd just flung himself through. Guybrush was soon able to regain his feet and examine his surroundings.

This was difficult, as it was almost pitch dark. All the lights were out, and most of the windows were curtained shut. He waited for his eyes to grow used to the murk, then found a ladder and climbed down to the floor.

His footsteps were loud in the stillness. Guybrush felt like a thief, exactly what he'd protested he wasn't. It was exciting. Moving slowly and quietly, Guybrush slunk along the walls, slipped under the front desk, and crept into the vault.

Everything was as he'd remembered it (thank goodness for Canard and his respect for the integrity of crime scenes!). Now, was there anything incriminating in here?

Guybrush found two things. One, a music box, right at the end of the slot containing Grampa Marley's safe deposit chest. Two, and rather more interestingly, a handkerchief with P.P. embroidered on it.  Guybrush picked it up off the floor and sniffed it. The odor was amazingly pungent, a fetid cocktail of swamp matter, rotting meat and overpowering perfume.  Guybrush put it in his pocket, then left the vault, looking for more clues.

More by chance than anything, he found the light switch. A metal chain dangled from the ceiling near the front desk; Guybrush pulled it, and suddenly the room was bathed in rich yellow light, along with the faint hiss of gas burning.

Guybrush scanned the room again, hoping to find something he'd missed in the dark.

Near the top of one wall, he found it. There was a shadow on the wall, a strange misshapen lump that didn't really look like anything. It was coming from one of the lanterns mounted along the mezzanine rail. Guybrush climbed the ladder and investigated.

Something was nestled in the lantern fixture--something pink, and rubbery, and slimy with sweat. Gross.  Suddenly, Guybrush realized it was a prosthetic nose. This must have come from Pegnose Pete! Guybrush reached for the nose.

At the same time, the door swung open.

"Ack!" said Guybrush, startled. He'd forgotten Canard. The trampoline-through-the-window bit might have been missed by Inspector Canard, but he'd have to have noticed the lamplight glimmering through the windows sooner or later. Knowing him, it was sooner.

Guybrush grinned guiltily down at him. "What are you doing in here?" he asked.

"I might ask you the same question," said Canard. "Instead, I'll just take that as evidence."

He meant the prosthetic nose. Guybrush was only too glad to throw it down to him. "Let's go try it on Pegnose!" he said eagerly.

"What a great idea," said Canard. "Except nobody knows where he is.  Bring him in, and I'll consider it. But remember this: even if it fits, it only proves he was in the bank. It still doesn't tie him to the loot."

"You still think I did it, don't you?" said Guybrush, hurt.

"Yes, but I can be swayed by the right evidence. Now get out of here."

Meanwhile, on Mêlée Island™...

The Great Debate, it wasn't.

Elaine and Charles were addressing a crowd of drunken pirates in the Scumm Bar. This had been Elaine's idea: get the guy up in front of her citizens, show them how fake and unpiratey he was, and they'd all vote for her. But she hadn't bet on the crowd before them being quite so drunk. Hell, they were completely sloshed. Had Charles been spritzing up the citizenry beforehand? He just stood there, smiling assuredly; he was giving nothing away.

She was just getting to the end of her speech. "...and so, my swashbuckling citizens, as we approach the next century, can we really afford to entrust Mêlée Island™'s future to a man with no past, a man with no experience, a man who doesn't even seem to LIKE pirates? Common sense says 'no'."

Most of the pirates cheered.

Charles smiled lazily. "My opponent is right: I am a newcomer to these islands. And it's true that my experience in 'affairs of state' is minimal, at best. But," and here he leaned forward conspiratorially, "it doesn't take a seventh-generation pirate princess to see that Mêlée Island™ needs more than a part-time status quo Governor; a Governor who can't even promise her citizens Good Times and Free Grog!"

This time the cheers were deafening. "Yaaaaay! Grog, grog, grog, grog!" Charles waved his hands in the air, smiling rapturously as he soaked up the pirates' approval. "Grog, grog, grog, grog!"

Elaine took out her pistol and fired it in the air. That shut them up. Charles gasped, shocked.

"S...Stop...St...Stop it!" she stammered. "Y...Y...You can't be stupid enough to believe that Charles is just gonna give you free grog and good times-" She paused. There was something on the faces of those pirates she didn't like. "Can you?" she finished lamely.

"Yaaaaay! Grog, grog, grog, grog!"

Charles smiled.

Guybrush paced beside the Hall of Justice under the incurious gaze of Brittany, full of questions.  Who was Pegnose?  Where was he?  How could he have known Guybrush would be at the bank that very day, that very time, and been able to frame him so expertly?  Could the mansion and the catapult and the mysterious Australian all be connected in some plot to stall him?  He felt like he had stumbled blindly into the heart of a conspiracy, and if there was any kind of piracy he hated, it was a conspiracy.

He sighed.  He felt in over his head.  Why did his life have to be so complicated?

Brittany was talking to herself.  "... I want to be a singer and have my own backup dancers.  I have no talent or experience, but I figure with the right attitude, theeeerrre's no stopping mee!"

She sang the last line, completely unaware of his presence.   It gave him a strange burst of energy.  He was Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty..um...Wrongfully Accused--and there was no stopping him, either.

He silently wished her luck and was on his way.

Between the Hall of Justice and the Law Office of W.T.D. was a little shopping center.  He skirted the grassy knoll in the center "...don't want to be accused of another crime I didn't commit..." and peeked through the window of a modest place called "House of Sticks." 

Inside was the Australian from the bank, still in a foul mood.  The shopkeeper, a white-haired man with the benign calm of those who have seen it all before, was unfazed by the Aussie's ranting.

"Freddie!  Where's my new walking stick?" the stocky intruder was demanding.

"It's right over there, Mr. Mandrill," Freddie pointed.  The cane was leaning against a bench at the far end of the shop, surrounded by wood shavings.  "A brand new cane, hand-carved to the exact specifications of your previous stick."

"It'd better be, or I'll buy up your putrid little shop and replace it with something useful.... like a public urinal!"  Mandrill snatched up his cane and hobbled out of the shop.  For the first time, Guybrush noticed how frail the bitter old outsider really was.

Freddie watched him go.  "I take it you'll be putting this on your tab, Mr. Mandrill?"

He paused in the doorframe, snarling.  "What do you think?"  And then he was gone, taking care to slam the door on the way out.  Guybrush slipped in.

"You know, if I weren't a peaceable sort," Freddie remarked to the air, "I'd whack that gentleman over the head with one o' my sticks... and I wouldn't stop whacking until his brains spilled out all over my rustic, hand-polished hardwood floor!"  He laughed, an eerie combination of menace and tolerant amusement.

"But... you're the peaceable sort, right?"  Guybrush eyed all the weapons the old man had at easy reach.

Freddie waved this off with a smile.  "And you are?"

"Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate" and occasional Private Eye.

"Most folks 'round here call me Freddie... which is a sensible thing to do, considerin' that it's my name 'n all."

Guybrush found himself warming to this man. Would Freddie happen to know anything about a no-nosed pirate?

"That sounds a lot like Pegnose Pete," came the reply.

Would Freddie know where to find him? 

"There are some rumors of him living in the mysterious Mystes O' Tyme Marshe, but...." he shook his head.

The Private Eye sensed that this trail had gone cold.  "What happened to his nose?"

Freddie laughed.  "Most folk 'round these parts would tell you it was nibbled off by a duck."  He lowered his tone.  "Personally, I don't believe it."

A duck??  Neither did Guybrush!  "Why not?" he asked anyway.

"Well, sir...it's been my experience that ducks have exceptionally tiny teeth.  It'd take a long time for a duck, even a particularly nasty duck, to nibble off a man's nose.  I can't imagine a man letting a duck peck away at his nose for hours on end without seeking medical help." 

Guybrush shook his head.  Pegnose was becoming a deeper mystery than he had prepared for.  Whatever happened to straightforward hoods like Largo LaGrande?

Freddie talked on.  Apparently most of his customers weren't pirates at all, just "tourists, gawkers, and other assorted outsiders."  Was the Caribbean becoming a popular vacation site??  Great Monkey forbid!  Still, they were keeping Freddie in business "..and, if Mister Mandrill ever pays off his tab, I can retire."  Freddie closed his eyes blissfully.  Apparently Mandrill broke three or four sticks a week.

Guybrush headed out of the shop, filled with a strange foreboding.  Pegnose, possible duck-victim, was lurking in the mysterious swamp called the Mystes O' Tyme.  He shivered.  Even the spelling was creepy.

But not as creepy as what he was about to encounter.  Something misted around his face and his eyes opened wide at the scent of rotting flesh.  He leaped back in horror and whirled around to behold-

*sprrtzspprttz* There before him was a pirate with unnaturally pale skin, a powdered wig, and lips drawn into a pouting, Cupid-bow sort of smile.  He looked bleached.  He looked fake.  He looked the one thing a pirate should never look.

He looked cute.

He was also holding a spritzer bottle, the source of the horrible, LeChuck-like odor.  He sprayed Guybrush for the third time in as many seconds. 

"Stop that!"  Guybrush was finding it difficult to breathe now.

The girlish pirate lowered the spritzer.  "Welcome to Scents and Sensibilities," he recited in a strangely monotone voice, almost as though he'd been programmed.  "Can Hugo interest you in one of our fine perfumes, colognes, or aftershaves?"  Said products sat on a little stand next to him, proudly bearing the "Scents and Sensibilities" banner.  Noble attempt at a cultured pun, but a slight mispronunciation here and there tipped Guybrush off that this "Hugo" was not entirely aristocracy.

By the time he finally escaped from "Hugo," still wreathed in a cloud of Eau de LeChuck (the featured 'fragrance),' he knew far more.

"Hugo" was a re-educated pirate.  He had taken "Ozzie Mandrill's Pirate Re-Education Mail Order Correspondence Course," all designed to teach him to be productive, social, marketable.  Profitable.  Part of Mandrill's continuing efforts to make the Caribbean more...user friendly. 

Ozzie Mandrill.  There he was again.  The gazillionaire who wanted to buy the Scumm Bar.  The man responsible for all of those closed shops on Mêlée.  The greedy hunchback who wouldn't pay his walking stick tab.

Guybrush narrowed his eyes.  It was high time he confronted Ozzie personally.

He stopped next to the lawyer's office.  Should he?  No.  But....

His piratey sense of mischief took over and he ducked inside.  "Why don't sharks eat lawyers?"

They stared at him as if he were insane.  "Who says sharks don't eat lawyers?" protested Thrawtle.

Whipp agreed.  "Sharks eat lawyers all the time."

"Once they've signed all the appropriate corpus delecti waivers," corrected Digg.

Guybrush tried again.  "What do you call a galleon full of lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?"

"A terrible tragedy?"

"A horrible waste?"

"A potential negligence litigation goldmine?"

"A good start!" said Guybrush cheerfully, on his way out the door.

The three lawyers looked at each other.  "I don't get it," Thrawtle muttered.

Guybrush Threepwood, Master Swordsman, paused at the entrance to Ozzie's mansion.  Lucre Island seemed to hate this man--the area around his home looked dry and desertlike, with cactus-like plants even though a fountain continuously spat water out of a Venus Fly-trap-mouth.  The one spot of beauty was a tiny flower--and it looked out of place.

He gathered his nerve and marched inside, determined to force Ozzie into a duel and learn his secret plans.

Most of Ozzie's house was one enormous room.  It was dark.  As Guybrush's eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, he gasped.

The room was filled with trophies--the dead-and-stuffed kind.  Heads, full mounts, antlers.....a piece of every exotic and endangered animal that ever existed was here in this room, gathering dust.  Fake eyes regarded him from all directions.  He swallowed.  A more sensitive naturalist would have fled the room screaming.

A gun cabinet stood at one end; judging by the lack of dust, it saw regular use.  Guns don't kill wild animals, Guybrush thought.  Ozzie kills wild animals.  

Poor things.  He walked slowly into the room, staring in increasing horror.

Poor dim-witted giant panda.  Poor cuddly-wuddly giant dingo.  Poor defenseless man-eating crocodile...

"Whaddaya want?" growled one of the trophies.  He jumped. 

Ozzie sat in a wicker-back chair at the far end of the room, eyeing him.  His feet rested on the carcass of a poor, defenseless giant platypus.  "Who are you?" he demanded in his uncouth accent.

As if he didn't know!  Guybrush strode toward him with a pirate's arrogant sneer.  "I'm Guybrush Threepwood, Monkey Wrangler."  Monkey what??  Where had that come from?

"Ha!  Everyone knows there are no monkeys in the Caribbean."

Guybrush refused to let the man unsettle him.  "And you are..?"

"My name is Ozzie."  His tone made even 'normal' conversation sound like a growl.  "Ozzie Mandrill."

He seemed slightly unsettled.  Guybrush pressed his slight advantage.  "Ozzie Mandrill..?  Aren't you that guy who bites the heads off monkeys?"

As he'd hoped, this infuriated the other man.  "Cut the gink, Threepwood!  Ozzie Mandrill is a businessman.  A capitalist.  A real-estate developer.  I'm also...." a pause for dramatic effect "..THE FUTURE KING OF THE CARIBBEAN!"

Guybrush didn't even have to pretend disinterest.  Too many people swept through the Tri-Island area thinking themselves invincible--perhaps Ozzie had the insults to establish a small territory, but he was nothing compared to the weighty bulk of Piratedom. 

On the other hand, Mandrill was a more immediate threat closer to home--to Guybrush's beloved Scumm Bar.  He had to find out what the man planned to do next.

"The Scumm Bar?  That's just the tip of the aardvark," Ozzie looked smug.  "I'm going to buy the whole Caribbean!"

Guybrush was getting a little angry himself.  There were a lot of people out on those islands trying to make a dishonest living, like their parents before them, and Ozzie thought he could walk in with a handful of gold and just take over? What scared Guybrush was that he probably could.  "What's your beef with pirates?"

Mandrill actually seemed to consider this.  "Well, for one thing, pirates smell.  The only thing that smell worse than a pirate is two pirates.  It's enough to make a man park a tiger on the rug."  Guybrush had no clue what that meant, but his clothes were still drenched in Eau de LeChuck, and he would be hard-put to argue that this was a good thing.

But he was getting distracted from his original purpose.  "I challenge you to an Insult Swordfighting duel, Ozzie!"

He looked bored.  "For what stakes?"

"If I win, you have to tell me all your secret plans."

"Agreed."  Ozzie was remarkably calm about this.  He clearly had no idea whom he was facing.  "And if I win, you have to get out of my house."

"Agreed."  Guybrush caught the dueling sword Ozzie threw at him and waited in the center of the carpet.  In five minutes, he would know exactly what the hunchbacked old man was up to....

Five minutes later he was back on the Australian's doorstep, utterly confused.

He'd lost. 

And all because of one little matter he'd never stopped to consider: Ozzie, being Australian, was using Australian insults.

"You smell worse than a dunny budgie." 

"You wouldn't know Christmas from Bourke Street." 

"You're not the full quid." 

"You're a snag short of a barbie."

"I've seen better from a bludger."

"Looks like things are crook in Mussellbrook for you."

Guybrush felt a little shaken.  Now he knew how Ozzie had managed to defeat so many pirates in so little time.  He might as well be speaking another language altogether. 

The little flower waved at him.  He picked it in revenge and headed back to town.

As he trudged slowly back across Lucre, he noticed something.  Up north was a pocket of mist, mingling with the unmistakable scent of a swamp.  A faint trail led toward it.  He ventured through the jungle, cautiously feeling his way along, until he broke through the trees and found himself on a muddy bank.

A small wooden sign somehow managed to stay above the mud.  "Mystes O' Tyme,"it proclaimed.

If I were Pegnose, this is where I would hide, Guybrush thought.  The odor was almost overwhelming.  He put the P. P.  handkerchief over his nose without thinking--only to discover it smelled just as bad, if not worse.  Pegnose smelled like a swamp.  A fishy, flowery swamp.

Pegnose...  If he and Ozzie were conspiring to get him out of the way, then Pegnose would surely have some idea what the gazillionaire intended.  Maybe he could be persuaded to talk.  If Guybrush could only get through the swamp and find him.

A raft lay on the bank, complete with a long pole to maneuver it.  It was an almost obscene invitation---if he went in there, he would lose his way in seconds.  The mist was too thick.  He needed directions.

Directions.....Pegnose......peg nose....peg......nose.....fake...nose....

"Deadeye Dave!" Guybrush yelled, and ran toward town.

He shoved the handkerchief into Dave's face.  "Does this smell like anyone you know?"

Dave sniffed hard.  "I can't smell it," he confessed.

Guybrush was perplexed.  "But....I thought blind people-"

"Visually challenged!" corrected Dave.

"-that their other senses were sharper to compensate," Guybrush finished doggedly.  "I mean, I have two perfectly good eyes and I can still smell this handkerchief."

"I could too," came the reply.  "But I have a cold."

Surrounded in the reek of Eau de LeChuck, Guybrush suddenly envied Dave.  He was amazed the blind shopkeeper couldn't smell that, even with his stuffy nose.

Inspiration struck, as unexpectedly as she always did.  A lightbulb flashed over his head, which he automatically reached up and pocketed.  Excusing himself as quickly as possible, he fled the room. 

The aromatherapy world was about to encounter "Eau de Pegnose."            

He stole a spritzer from a pile of empties beside the Scents and Sensibilities shop (apparently "Hugo" went through a lot of Eau de LeChuck with his free samples).  To the swamp first, to get a sample of pond water.  A swampy scent.  Then a flowery scent--no problem, he added the flower--a fishy scent, and a woody scent.  Freddie's floor was helpfully littered with wood shavings, and a nearby bait shop provided the fish.  He spritzed the air and sniffed.  His toes curled.  Yes, this was definitely it. 

Gait purposeful, eyes forward, he marched upon the Palace o' Prostheses.

"Quack!"

He glanced back.  A duck was following him.  Was the scent attracting it?

He tried to shoo it away.  "Quack!"  The duck would have none of this.  It trailed him like a dog all the way to Dave's prosthetics shop.  It waited patiently while he helped Dave sort out the files until he found Pegnose's.  It watched him through the window as he read the file over.

The "directions" looked more like a train schedule. 

12:05 W

12:20 N

12:30 S

12:40 S

1:00 S

1:40 E

2:05 W

2:55 N

He checked his watch.  It was well past noon and getting later.  He hoped the file would make more sense once he got into the Mystes O' Tyme.

"Quack!"  The duck waddled after him as he passed by the Hall of Justice.  "How's the investigation going?" he asked casually.

"What investigation?  You were caught red-handed."  Canard was nothing if not logical.  "I'm just waiting for the judge."

"You're not going to lift a finger to help me, are you?" Guybrush asked.

"No."

"But what about justice?"

"Haven't you heard, Mr. Threepwood?  Justice is blind."

"Not to mention lazy, apparently," Guybrush growled.

Canard showed a little spirit.  "Quiet, you!"

"I'm a victim of society!" Otis plainted from his cell.  Oh, right.  The repeat-offender flower thief.

Guybrush turned to his wayward crewman.  "What is it with you and flowers?"

"It's a plot, I tell you," whined the little French-Canadian.  "People are to make me seem less fearsome and piratey by accusing me of being the kind of pirate who likes to pick flowers!"

"Quack!"

Guybrush sighed.  "If it's any comfort, Otis....I never found you all that fearsome to begin with."

"Oh, go pick a pack of posies!" the other man snapped.

The duck stumbled over something--a can of chicken grease placed suspiciously close to the spikes of an iron maiden, probably for smoother impaling.  Guybrush swiped it.  Canard either didn't notice or mentally added it to his list of crimes.

Grease to the greasy.  It was time to bring Pegnose Pete to justice.

"Quack!!"  The duck was having trouble keeping up as he jogged north.  He took pity on it and waited for it to catch up.  Feathers ruffled, it staggered over, fixing him with an accusing eye.  "Moo!"

Moo?!?  "What kind of duck are you?"

The duck did not deign to reply.  He picked it up and carried it under his arm. 

Once again, the bushes parted, and the Mystes O' Thyme hovered in the air before him--a world of gray, white, and muted brown, the colors of dead things.  The skeletal trees ghosted in and out of sight, like stars in a storm....

"Quack," commented the duck, unimpressed.

All right, it was just a swamp.  He stepped aboard the raft and poled north, pinning the directions underneath his foot for easy reference. 

He glanced at his watch, which was spinning at several times the normal rate.  Eventually the hands stopped on 12:05.  Time to go west.

This he did.  After approximately 15 minutes' worth of west, he turned the raft and pushed north again.  Apparently time was geography here.

12:30.  South.  He began to relax.  This wasn't so hard!

"Hey!  Guybrush!  I need your help!"

He jumped.  That voice sounded strangely familiar...

There, poling toward him on the other side of a huge, old brass fence standing in the water (don't ask why it was there, it simply was), was a thin man with enormous blond hair tied back in a tiny braid.  White shirt, short blue pants, a faintly guileless expression for someone clearly a pirate--and a duck under his arm and a paper under his shoe.

It took Guybrush three heartbeats to realize he was looking at himself.

The other-Guybrush pushed himself over and shoved the pole into the muddy floor of the swamp, freeing his hands.  "Here, take this."  Guybrush followed his example, reaching through the bars to accept the strange object--a key with the head of a skull.  A skeleton key.

"Who are you?" he demanded of the other-him.

"I'm you in the future," the other explained, as though this were perfectly obvious.  "I need you to unlock this gate for me."

The gate in question was standing between them, and it locked from his side.

Guybrush hesitated.  This looked exactly like him, but he still could be anyone--and probably Pegnose.  Why should he help him?  Granted, he was carrying a duck, but....

The other Guybrush waited with a modicum of patience.  It was fairly evident he wasn't going to say anything unless prompted.

"If you're really me.." he said finally in a desperate attempt at the clever riddles other time-travel-paradox victims seem to come up with "...what number am I thinking of right now?"

42.   42 42 42...

Otherbrush never hesitated.  "Forty-two."

Creepy.  "I guess you really are me," he conceded.  The other Guybrush poled out of the way as he fumbled with the key, unlocked the gate, and pushed it open. 

"Thanks, Guybrush!  You're the greatest."  He watched himself float past, heading south, until he vanished in the mist.

THAT was officially weird.  Guybrush shook his head, hugged the duck, and poled on.

Some time later, how much later he wasn't sure, he turned south, only to find a huge fence blocking his way.   It extended as far as he could see in either direction, and the only gate appeared to be locked from the other side.  He sighed. How on earth was he supposed to get through th-

Past-Guybrush, feeling his way blindly through the mists, came into sight. 

"Hey!  Guybrush!" he called.  "I need your help!"

Pastbrush jumped.  It was quite amusing.  Presentbrush (or was he Otherbrush now?) parked his raft beside the gate and waited.  He could feel his past self's eyes on himself, wondering who he was.

He passed the skeleton key back through the bars.  "Here, take this."

"Who are you?" demanded his past self, accepting it gingerly.

"I'm you in the future," he explained.  Again.  "I need you to unlock this gate for me.

His past self just stood there looking confused.  Guybrush waited, knowing he would eventually unlock the gate and let himself through.

"If you're really me," Pastbrush finally ventured, "what number am I thinking of right now?"

"Forty-two." 

The shock on his own face was even more amusing.  "I guess you really are me."

Past-him finally managed to get the gate open, and he sailed calmly past, remembering to thank himself just in time.

Wow.... he thought, glancing at his watch and turning east, feeling even more unsettled.  People talk about finding themselves all the time, but it gives you the creeps when it actually happens....

"Quack!"

He turned south one last time, and emerged from a wall of mist.  He was in a tiny lake with an even tinier house standing in the very center.  This could only be Pegnose's hideout.

It had, however incongruously, a Welcome mat and a flower in the window.  Funny.  He didn't feel welcome.

Guybrush poled the raft up to the end of a long, sloping dock.  Two people were inside, talking, and with a little stealth, maybe he could overhear the conversation.

"..like I said, I got the job done.  Now where's my money?!"

Pegnose Pete was slowly beginning to get the idea that Ozzie Mandrill never paid for anything if he could help it.

"All in due time, my dear Mister Pegnose," his current patron soothed.  "We've only completed part of the plan.  You've done an admirable job in getting Guybrush out of the way-as well as reappropriating the Marley family heirlooms...."  He paused to fix Pegnose with a sharp look.  "I trust you've put them somewhere safe for the time being?"

"Of course I have!  I'm no idiot," he snapped. "That junk you're so interested in is safe and sound in my impenetrable cave."

Mandrill showed his teeth.  "That 'junk,' as you call it, may very well be the key to riddling these islands of pirates once and for all--no offence, of course."  

Pegnose, who considered himself a step or two above the average slimy deck-swabber, said only "Right.  So, about my fee...."

"Later, my good man.  In the meantime, the heirlooms are our little secret.  Keep them hidden, and not a word to anyone.  We'd hate to have my plans spoiled by an indiscretion."

At this point, Pegnose only wanted the man gone.  "All right, Mister Mandrill.  We'll do it your way.  But if you don't pay me soon, I'll cut yer gizzard out!" 

"There's no need to be such a ruffian," Mandrill growled back.  "You'll get what's coming to ya." 

Pegnose was not deaf to the possible meanings of this.  "I'd better."

"I'm off to tend to my affairs," Mandrill said, judging this a good time to get gone.  "Now that we're in possession of the Marley heirlooms, I must begin determining how they relate to the Ultimate Insult."

Pegnose growled at the closed door after the man.  So distracted was he that he failed to notice strange footsteps on his deck, a flicker of a shadow at the windowsill.

By then it was too late.  The duck was already inside.

Some instinct warned him of danger.  Slowly, cautiously, he turned-

"Quack!" 

"YYEEEEAAAAAAAAAUGH!!!"

With a scream of pure terror, Pegnose fled the hut, skidded on something slippery, tripped, lost his balance, fell--and landed squarely in a large rectangular wooden box.  His own crawdaddy trap.  The barred lid locked into place over him, and he realized, to his horror, that he was the catch of the day.

"Quack!  Quack!"  That monster.... the horrible DUCK!....flapped its wings in triumph as Guybrush Threepwood casually walked over, an empty chicken grease can in hand.  The Welcome mat was completely covered in the slippery substance, as were Pegnose's shoes.  He thrashed wildly, shaking the trap but getting nowhere.

"Get me out of here!" 

"Ha!  I don't think so," Guybrush cackled.  "You're going to jail, bucko."

"Quack!"