ACT I ACT II ACT III ACT III+

ACT II:

ENTER THE MANATEE

Not long after, Guybrush was carrying the chest of wedding gifts down to Mêlée Township.

Sometimes, he really felt like the universe was out to get him. It wasn't enough that someone was flinging boulders at their house, oh no. It wasn't enough that some poncy aristocrat wanted them out of the Governorship. It wasn't even enough that an old businessman called Ozzie Mandrill seemed hell-bent on destroying everything he held dear.

No, LeChuck had to come back. The most dangerous pirate in the Caribbean, and his sworn enemy.

Why can't I be faced with just a simple problem for a change?

Elaine was back at the Mansion, working hard at winning the election. And as for Guybrush, he urgently needed the secret of the Ultimate Insult. He'd looked in the chest on the return voyage to Mêlée™, and hadn't figured anything out. Elaine had had a peek, and likewise had no idea. There was only one person who could help them now - the Voodoo Lady.

Guybrush, walking under the clock archway, staggered under the weight of the chest. He directed a few black thoughts at Grampa Marley; surely the old guy could've packed just a few less wedding gifts for his granddaughter. He kicked open the House of Mojo's door and set the chest down with a heavy thud.

A pull of the giant finger and the Voodoo Lady was once more before him.

Guybrush had no time for pleasantries. But one of the Voodoo Lady's defining traits was that she rarely wasted your time with them either. "I see you are finally ready to ask me about the Ultimate Insult," she said, before Guybrush could even take a breath.

"Stop doing that!" said Guybrush. He hated it when people read his mind. "But you're right... This chest contains Grandpa Marley's heirlooms." He pushed it front of her. "According to Grandpa Marley's letter, his wedding presents to Elaine hold the key to assembling the Ultimate Insult. But there's so much stuff in these heirlooms that it's hard to separate the presents from the junk."

"Ah, I sense powerful voodoo forces at work here..." said the Voodoo Lady. She waved her arms, and suddenly her voice grew distant. "Weddings, nuptials, bands of gold, reveal to us a gift that's old!"

Her hand dived into the chest, and came out holding a large pair of wooden earrings.

"Lacy veils and pre-nups, too, show us the symbol of something new!" This time, she brought out a necklace. It was also very big.

"Bridesmaids tinged with jealous sorrow, bring to light a present borrowed!"

Guybrush stared at the object in her hand, confused. A pen on a chain? What kind of a present is that?

"One heart beats where once were two, the final gift is something blue!" This time, her hands came out empty. She tried again. "The final gift is something blue!" Nothing.

"Is something wrong?" asked Guybrush.

"Yes. There should be a fourth wedding gift in here. A BLUE wedding gift. But my mystic senses detect nothing,"

That sounded about right to Guybrush. "Probably it's still on Lucre Island™," he said gloomily.

"I don't think so," said the Voodoo Lady. "My voodoo instincts tell me it's somewhere on Mêlée Island™. How curious."

Well, Mêlée Island™ was a lot better than Lucre, at least he wouldn't have to make another ship journey. Still, he could see a lot of walking and talking to people in his immediate future. While he was here, though, he might as well pick the Voodoo Lady's brain a little.

"Why didn't you tell me that Charles L. Charles was really LeChuck?"

"What, and ruin the surprise?"

Guybrush, with some effort, kept his temper. He started to ask something else about the Ultimate Insult, but the Voodoo Lady beat him to it with her precognition. "I sense you wish to know what the Ultimate Insult is," she said. It turned out to be nothing good. The Ultimate Insult was nothing other than the most coveted and dangerous voodoo item ever created. 

"More coveted and dangerous than Big Whoop?" asked Guybrush.

"Twice as coveted, and twice as dangerous!"

Ulp. "What does it do?"

The Voodoo Lady told him it allowed the holder to spew incredibly foul insults at people. Which didn't seem so bad to Guybrush, until she elaborated that the insults were no ordinary insults, that they were spoken in an ancient and forgotten tongue, and that they could transform even the fiercest of pirates into an ego-less mound of glue...

...permanently!

"Wow," said Guybrush. "Wait a minute... If the insults are in a forgotten tongue, how come they're so dangerous?"

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" said the Voodoo Lady. "But the language used by the Ultimate Insult is so ancient that it's rumored to be the primal language, the language from which all other languages arose. Amplified by the voodoo magicks of the Ultimate Insult, this original language has the power to speak to the very heart of a person's soul... and mock it into oblivion!"

"Whoa." Guybrush suddenly felt quite vulnerable. He opened his mouth. "So, h-"

"I see that you want to know how to make an Ultimate Insult," said the Voodoo Lady smoothly.

I really wish she'd stop doing that. "That would be useful," Guybrush agreed.               

"Sadly, I have no idea how to make an Ultimate Insult talisman," said the Voodoo Lady. She told him how the Ultimate Insult had been outlawed generations ago, in the aftermath of a terrible Ultimate Insult battle that had threatened the very existence of the Caribbean. As a result, all known copies of the Ultimate Insult recipe were gathered up and destroyed, lest one ever be assembled again.

So maybe the Voodoo Lady wouldn't be so useful after all. Guybrush thought of something else to ask her. Let's see, he knew Who, How, What...

Where.

"I see that you want to know where to find the makings of an Ultimate Insult," said the Voodoo Lady. "As I said, the instructions to build an Ultimate Insult have been destroyed. However, I seem to recall that the individual pieces of an Ultimate Insult can only be found on one island.

"Monkey Island™?" Guybrush guessed.

"No, too obvious. It was some other island entirely. Unfortunately, this island's name has also been lost to the vagaries of time."

And though he asked her again and again, the Voodoo Lady could tell him nothing further. Just a cryptic hint: "I'd find the woman who wore these earrings."

He left her store a little wiser, a little disappointed... and a little fearful.

Outside, he took stock of the situation. With the location of the Ultimate Insult hidden, and its very makeup similarly unknown, probably there was no hope of ever recovering it. But he could worry about that later. Right now, he just had to find the fourth wedding present.

From what he could remember of the Marley family history, Grampa Marley had been Governor of Mêlée Island™ twenty years ago. Maybe there were some old timers around who might remember those days. Of course, there weren't as many now, he thought sourly, looking at all the 'SOLD' signs.

Then a name came to him: Meathook! Of course! Carla and Otis had been only too happy (well, moderately happy, anyway) to fill him on Meathook's story while they were on the open sea. According to them he still lived on Mêlée Island™, on his offshore island, and no, Ozzie hadn't turfed him out yet.

It seemed like a good lead to Guybrush. Meathook's house was on the other side of the island, so he took off at a steady jog.

Before he'd taken ten paces, he pulled up sharply.

He was standing outside the Scumm Bar. Or where the Scumm Bar had been.

The building was still there. But all of the broken ship parts and sea flotsam that had formerly adorned the ramshackle building were gone. In their place was a tall, dark brown jungle mask, glaring down at the street from under thick bristling eyebrows. Torches burned on either side of him. Bamboo shoots were arranged artistically.

The sign had been replaced, too. It now said: "The Lua Bar".

"Lua Bar??" said Guybrush. "What's a lua?"

He couldn't believe the Scumm Bar was gone. This was surely just some practical joke, the kind of thing a few drunk pirates might do. No, no way... With a growing sense of foreboding, Guybrush walked across and opened the door.

It was like he'd stepped into another dimension.

He was standing in the doorway of a trendy, upmarket fusion restaurant.

"Great pitchers of grog!" Guybrush blurted. "They've done something horrible to the Scumm Bar!"

Guybrush could see two patrons nearby. Both were young, slender and well dressed. Neither looked familiar. They didn't look like they were from Mêlée: hell, they didn't look like they were from the Caribbean. Where had they come from? Why were they here? What were they doing here?

One of the two, a woman sitting by herself at a table near the door, sipped at something. Guybrush guessed it was a drink, although with all the layered colors and leafy green things poking out of the glass it looked more like some sort of hydroponics experiment. The wall behind her was smooth: they'd filled in the dart holes! And the dartboard was missing! No matter where Guybrush looked, he saw something wrong. No more empty barrels of grog! The rat holes in the walls were gone! The Playpirate calendar behind the bartender! The bartender! The-

"Excuse me, can I help you?"

The bright, professionally cheerful voice startled Guybrush out of his spiral of despair. He turned and saw one of the Lua bar waitresses, apparently waiting to take his order. She was wearing a green tube top and an Authentic Tahitian Native-Woven grass skirt over a pair of boxer shorts. Her wooden sandals clunked against the polished hardwood floor (Guybrush noted with horror that all the drink and vomit stains had been sandpapered off). But perhaps the most jarringly offensive detail was the black skull-and-bones tricorner hat on her head. Nestled in her wavy blond hair, it looked like a party hat, and Guybrush felt a sudden surge of anger. They were being ridiculed!

"What happened to the Scumm Bar?" asked Guybrush.

"Oh, we're under new management now," said the waitress. "We've done away with the swill, pirates and wenches."

Done away. Just like that. Guybrush felt dizzy.

"What... do you serve here?" he asked.

"Oh, the sushi is all very good," said the waitress.

Guybrush wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly. "Umm, what's sushi?"

The waitress looked at him, amused. "Are you for real? Everyone's eating it these days. Ok, it's raw fish, artistically prepared with natural ingredients from the sea.

"That sounds pretty gross," said Guybrush.

"Well, we do have a heated dish for the," --she looked critically at Guybrush--"less trendy people like you. Try the flaming scuttlefish."

"Never mind. I'm not all that hungry," said Guybrush.

The waitress lost interest in him. "Excuse me, I have customers waiting." And while she bustled off to the other patrons, Guybrush backed away and stumbled outside.

In the cooler night air, Guybrush started to think again. It was obvious who was behind this: Ozzie Mandrill! Now he just had one further reason to send the guy packing. A steely resolve grew within him. Better watch out, Ozzie, he thought. This time it's personal.

But there wasn't anything he could do about it now. Guybrush started on the road to Meathook's house.

Meathook's house was much as he'd remembered it, although the gap between his island and Mêlée was now bridged by a... well, bridge. Guybrush felt a pang of nostalgia for the old pulley-and-poultry method of crossing the gap.

He knocked.

"Go away!" shouted Meathook from inside the house.

"Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate," said Guybrush.

"Nice try," shouted Meathook. "Guybrush and Elaine are dead. I know why you're here, and you can't have it."

"What are you talking about?" said Guybrush.

"Stop pretending, you greedy old man! You think you can just buy up the whole island, just because you can insult people? Well, think again! You can't take my house away from me if you can't get in!"

This was getting him nowhere. Guybrush tried the doorknob, which to his surprise was unlocked. Guybrush opened the door and stepped inside.

It was like stepping into a fiery, rather smelly furnace.

A paint-spattered Meathook was bending over a canvas on the floor. A beret was slung jauntily over his bald skull, and he appeared to have grown a mustache. Around him was a junkyard heap of easels, paintbrushes, barrels full of hot wax, paint and colored wax cans. The walls were hung with paintings and wax artwork, the style of which looked rather familiar. An open fireplace blasted heat into the rest of the room.

The cold draft from outside made Meathook stand and turn. He gasped. "Guybrush!"

"Meathook!"

They quickly got reacquainted. Meathook was only too happy to explain all the artistic implements around him. As a child, he'd been one of the foremost watercolor painters in the Tri-Island area. But following the... accident... in which he'd lost both his hands, he'd drifted into piracy. He didn't really like it, but what else could he do? Finally, after the traumatic events on Monkey Island, Meathook resolved to return to the world of art. He created paintings by dripping colored wax from his hooks onto canvas.

All of which was the silliest story Guybrush had heard in some time, but he was too diplomatic to say so. He started to ask something about Monkey Island, but Meathook cut that question off quickly. "I don't want to talk about it."

He tried another question. "Do you have any idea what the Ultimate Insult is?"

"Not a clue," said Meathook.

"I'm looking for Grampa Marley's fourth wedding present," explained Guybrush.

"That's funny."

"Why?"

"Many years ago, when I was a child prodigy using conventional watercolors, Grampa Marley hired me to paint him a map of the Tri-Island Area. He said it was going to be a wedding present for his granddaughter. Unfortunately, he left for Australia before I finished it."

Trying to hide his excitement, Guybrush asked, "Where's that painting today?"

"I don't know," said Meathook. Guybrush's face fell. "When I began working with wax, I painted over all my old watercolors... I just couldn't stand looking at them anymore. I think I covered Marley's map with some sort of landscape, but that's all I can remember."

"Do you still have it?" asked Guybrush.

"Oh, no. My waxy creations are sold faster than I can produce them. Marley's map could be anywhere by now."

Guybrush stayed there another five minutes, trying to jog Meathook's memory. He got nowhere. All Meathook was able to add was that the canvas Grampa Marley gave him to paint the Tri-Island map was a special 'voodoo' canvas. Whatever that meant. Guybrush wished Meathook the best and made a hasty exit.

All the way back, he tried to remember where he'd seen that style of painting before. Just before he reached Mêlée township, it hit him. There had been a wax painting in the Lua bar. A landscape, from what he remembered.

Getting it would mean heading back inside the Lua Bar. Guybrush had already acquired a dread of the place twice as bad as that he felt when going to the Lucre Island™ lawyers. Guybrush pictured the scowling face of Ozzie Mandrill, and his resolve strengthened. Just you wait...

He pulled open the door and strode in.

Nothing had changed in his absence. Even the same patrons were still here. Guybrush looked to his right and saw the wax painting. It hung on the wall above a mechanized canal that brought meals floating out of the kitchen on cute handcrafted pirate ships. The style certainly looked very... Meathooky. And it was a landscape.

Guybrush looked around stealthily. He walked around the side of the canal and reached a hand for the lower right corner of the painting. He lifted it off-

"Hey! Don't touch that!"

It was the waitress. She looked at him sternly. "That's an expensive collectable."

Guybrush sheepishly put it back. Maybe he could have brushed past her and forced his way out--none of these people looked particularly strong--but he always got bashful about committing crimes when people were watching.

He decided to hang around and wait for a better opportunity. To cover his tracks, Guybrush ordered dinner. Moments later, he was seated on a stool in front of the canal, waiting for one flaming scuttlefish to come along.

A flicker of orange at his left caught his eye. Guybrush blinked. Sailing out of the kitchen was either some kind of Norse funeral for midgets, or his meal.

They certainly didn't call it the Flaming Scuttlefish for nothing. A fire had been lit in the belly of a small, sooty-black boat, and suspended above it were several fillets of scuttlefish. Guybrush could hear them sizzling in the flames. The boat didn't bob or sway, which meant it must be on some sort of chained track. Suddenly Guybrush realized he didn't know what he was supposed to do. Pull the fish out by the skewers? Take the boat? Let it just sail in a loop forever, taking a nibble each time it passed?

In the event Guybrush did nothing, except lean back as the boat passed. Someone had been a little too enthusiastic with the fire.

The boat reached the end of the canal, and began heading back, passing under Meathook's wax painting. Flames licked the lower edges.

Right then, Guybrush had the idea.

He looked at the Meathook painting, and saw how the colors sort of ran together near the bottom. As the boat sailed back into the kitchen (the chef must have wondered why his specially prepared dish was untouched) Guybrush bent under the canal and noted the machinery that propelled the sushi boats through the water.

The next time the boat came round, Guybrush waited until it was right under Meathook's painting, then jammed a paintbrush Meathook had forced on him into the boat propulsion mechanism.

The boat stopped dead. The flames licked at the painting. And very soon the colors began to run...

It took several minutes for the chef to realize something was wrong. By the time he had fixed the boat propulsion mechanism, the wax painting was ruined. Guybrush waited an appropriate length of time in the background, and then asked the waitress if he could have the worthless canvas underneath. She told him he might as well take it.

As Guybrush carted the canvas outside, he felt he'd achieved some kind of moral victory.

He sobered up a little outside. Meathook's watercolor painting was still covered in a thin film of wax, but it was transparent enough to show a very detailed map of the Tri-Island area. Obviously one of these islands must hold the secret of the Ultimate Insult. But which one?

Guybrush tried putting all four wedding gifts together. Nothing happened. He tried assembling the earrings, necklace and pen into some kind of pattern on the map. No luck.

He remembered the Voodoo Lady's words: "I'd find the woman who wore these earrings." He looked skeptically at the earrings. The only woman who'd be wearing these would be a giantess. And even if they fit you wouldn't wear them, they were so big, and chunky, and wooden...

Guybrush had a sudden idea.

"Oh, no," he said, shaking his head. "No way."

The idea was too strange, too disturbing to be entertained. But the more he thought about it, the more plausible it became. Guybrush got up, gathered the wedding gifts together, and headed for the shipyard.

The shipyards were very quiet when he got there. The Harbor Mistress was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, Guybrush had had the foresight to tell his crew to stick around for a bit. Cheese and Carla were visible, Carla doing some heavy-duty deck swabbing, although he couldn't see Otis.

Seeing Mr. Cheese reminded Guybrush he had some bad news to impart. "Um... There's something I need to tell you about the Scumm Bar," he said.

"What might that be?" said Cheese.

Guybrush wondered how best to break the news. Of course, there was no good way to tell someone their pride and joy had been turned into a foofy French-Hawaiian-Japanese fusion restaurant.

"It was burned to the ground," he said.

Cheese laughed. "I think I would have heard something if that happened!"

Guybrush decided to let that particular topic of conversation go. He walked past Cheese and looked at the Dainty Lady figurehead. He saw the wavy blond hair, the billowing pink dress, the angelic face, and a detail he hadn't noticed before: the figurehead had pierced ears.

He felt ridiculous, but he pinned the earrings through them anyway.

Immediately, the figurehead was bathed in a green explosion of light. Guybrush leapt to one side. When the afterimages faded, the head was lifting, tilting from side to side. Eyes he'd thought were painted on rolled around animatedly, trying to get a bead on their environment. The soft wooden lips opened and closed. Though her body remained bolted to the ship, her head and neck had ceased to be wooden. Guybrush crept forward, momentarily overcome by awe.

Then the figurehead spoke, shattering a few of his illusions. "Who? What? Where? Oh cripes, not again." She sounded like a tough Wild West barmaid. She finally saw Guybrush in front of her. Her eyes focused, then narrowed. "Couldn't leave me alone, could you?" she said. "Most pirates would be happy with a gorgeous, inanimate pirate figurehead. But noooo, you had to stick those accursed voodoo earrings into me! Well, here I am! An enchanted, talking, ticked-off figurehead. Am I everything you hoped for?"

Guybrush didn't know what to say. "Hey! A talking figurehead!" he finally managed.

"Hey! A talking monkey!" said the figurehead sarcastically.

"Well, actually, I'm a pirate captain," said Guybrush. "Besides, there's no such thing as a talking monkey."

"Sez you. I've been everywhere in this cesspool of a tropical paradise, and I've seen everything... much more than some grog-lite swilling nobody like you." She looked down at her body. "Hey! Who painted me pink?"

This was all too confusing. What was he supposed to do now? Guybrush tried talking to the figurehead, but after many conversational dead-ends, nightmarish film-star caricatures and gratuitous personal insults (well, gratuitous from his perspective, at least) it was finally established that the figurehead (Guybrush felt too uncomfortable to ask her name) knew nothing about the Ultimate Insult. Although, the possibility had to be considered that she was the Ultimate Insult. She was certainly pretty good at it.

Guybrush looked at the other wedding gifts, and had an idea. Maybe he had to use these as well. He took the necklace and placed around her neck. It fit tightly. "A statuesque lady of your beauty should have a necklace," he said.

"Ah, how sweet. You remind me of the daughter your parents never had," said the figurehead.

Guybrush put the pen on a chain next, suspending it from the necklace.

"What is this compulsion you have to dress me up, you pantalooned freak?" snarled the figurehead.

He held up Meathook's painting in front of her. Suddenly the figurehead found she could move her arms. Without being particularly conscious of doing so, she brought her arms forward and grasped the sides of the painting. They froze into place.

"Oh, do you need me to carry that big, heavy picture for you?" said the figurehead.

"Yeah, do you mind?" asked Guybrush.

"You know what else would look good on me? Your blood on my hands."

Nothing happened for a few seconds. "So," said Guybrush, "you wouldn't happen to know anything about an Ultimate Insult, would you?"

The figurehead was getting fed up with this topic. "I got yer Ultimate Insult right here!" The pen dangling over the map began glowing, like it was on fire. The figurehead didn't notice.

"Sounds like a big 'Yes' to me," said Guybrush. "Do you know where it is?" He watched the pen, fascinated. It had started to move. It wavered over the map upheld in the figurehead's arms, like someone dowsing for water.

Still the figurehead was oblivious. "How the poop deck should I know?" While she ranted on, the pen was still moving. Suddenly it dipped and made two short strokes on the map.

Guybrush took the map and looked at it. A small brown X had been burnt on the map, right above Jambalaya Island™. "Interesting. Do you know what it looks like?" He handed the map back to the figurehead, this time with the pen dangling over the back of the painting.

The figurehead looked at him like he was demented. "I already told you..." But the pen wasn't listening. It whizzed over the blank canvas in a blur of movement.

When Guybrush took the picture back again, a complicated diagram had been burnt onto the back of the painting. It consisted of three parts: a silver monkey head, a bronze hat, and a golden man. Somehow these all slotted together into some kind of scepter.

None of these objects looked familiar. Then again, he'd never been to Jambalaya Island™.

He quickly gathered his crew. "This is your captain speaking," said Guybrush grandly. "Prepare for departure!"

"Oh, great," said Otis. "Now where are we going?"

"Jambalaya Island™. Home of the Ultimate Insult."

"Jambalaya Island™?" said Carla. "What kind of name is that?"

Guybrush looked at Cheese. "Can you get us there, Mr. Cheese?"

"Aye."

"Make it so."

But, much as he would have liked to depart on that cool-sounding line, he couldn't, because at that moment they heard footsteps on the pier. Guybrush looked around and saw Elaine walking towards him. "Elaine?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

"I don't think so," said Guybrush. "The ship is fully stocked with pork rinds, grog, and girly-books."

"Wow, sounds like heaven," said Elaine, rolling her eyes. "No, I meant you forgot to give the Gubernatorial symbol back to me."

"Oooh, yeah," said Guybrush. "Here." He gave Elaine the Gubernatorial symbol, and all of a sudden it was very quiet. Everyone seemed to be watching him.

"Well!" said Guybrush brightly. "I'm off to find the Ultimate Insult."

"Try not to get killed and/or cursed, dear," said Elaine. She turned and left.

Guybrush looked around at the po-faced spectators. "What? What?"

Everyone burst out laughing at Guybrush. Even the figurehead joined in: "Hey, a talking monkey!"

Guybrush growled. Ungrateful...

JAMBALAYA ISLAND™

Once more, they were sailing into the unknown.

Guybrush had never been to Jambalaya Island™ before. Neither had Carla or Otis. Mr. Cheese said he had, but after a typically near catastrophic sea journey, Guybrush had his doubts.

But his first impressions were good. The sun was high in the sky, and Cheese had managed to keep them on an even keel for the past two hours, for a change. Jambalaya Island™ itself looked okay from the sea, maybe a little too clean and upmarket, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary. As he gathered his crew on the docks, Guybrush felt sure the next part of his adventure would be a piece of cake.

Naturally, they didn't feel the same way. "Well, that was a miserable journey," said Otis, climbing slowly down the side of the ship.

"No cushy government job is worth this much grief," said Carla.

"Welcome to Jambalaya Island™," said Guybrush cheerily. "Home of swashbuckling pirates and spoooky voodoo curses!"

"And tacky theme restaurants," said Otis.

"And tourists."

"Do I be hearing piped-in music wafting through those artificial trees?" said Cheese suspiciously.

"What are you guys talking about?" asked Guybrush, turning to follow their gaze. "This is a perfectly normal pirate town-"

He got his first good look at Jambalaya Town.

For a moment, Guybrush was at a loss. He'd felt uncomfortable on Lucre Island™, but at least it was authentic. You got the feeling that actual pirates, albeit commercially oriented ones, lived there. The town in front of them was nothing like this. It was a bright, glintzy, vacuous slab of prefab architecture. It was picture perfect, except the picture wasn't one you'd want to look at for even a split second. Restaurants dotted the skyline, but he couldn't see a single house. It was the Lua Bar, ten times over.

"-that's been completely taken over by the corporate tourist industry," he finished lamely. Ozzie must have been really busy here, he thought. Where had all the pirates gone?

"I need a drink," said Carla, walking past him into town.

Guybrush looked at Cheese. "I've got repairs to make," he said, quite firmly.

"I'll stay here," volunteered Otis, "and, uh, guard the ship."

No help from those quarters. Guybrush sighed, looked at Jambalaya Town, shuddered, and started moving.

He didn't have any clear idea where to start. Guybrush had intended to talk to some of the local residents, but it didn't seem like there were even any left. And he couldn't see any tourists: the whole place was silent, with the exception of the piped-in music Cheese had noted earlier. Somehow this made the environment all the more eerie.

The nearest building to the docks was a Starbuccaneers coffee shop. With nothing else to do, Guybrush entered.

There were two people inside: a woman browsing the souvenir racks, wearing some of the loudest clothing Guybrush had ever seen; and a pimply faced youngster behind the bar. Guybrush approached the bar.

He knew better than to ask him about the Ultimate Insult. From the looks of things this guy wouldn't know much beyond the rudiments of customer service: he'd be surprised if he even knew his name. But Guybrush was curious about the merchandise.

"Welcome to Starbuccaneer's Coffee House," said the counter clerk, his voice breaking on each syllable. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Grog me!" said Guybrush.

"Sorry, sir, but we don't serve straight grog here," said the counter clerk. "But we do have some nice grog-flavored coffee drinks to choose from."

Guybrush's stomach turned over. "Grog-flavored?"

"It's a synthetic grog substitute. Quite good, really."

"But I want a grog!" Guybrush protested.

"You'll have to go over to the micro-groggery for that, sir," said the counter clerk. "We prefer not to compete with independent businesses."

"But doesn't your company prey on the competitors?" asked Guybrush.

"Predatory practices aren't good for anyone except the consumer," said the counter clerk automatically. "Instead of having a one stop shop that offers a single bland choice for every item you may want, we prefer to specialize and give our customers literally hundreds of confusing options."

"Did your PR person make you say that?" asked Guybrush.

"It's the company credo," said the counter clerk, nodding. "We have to learn it before we earn the right to wear the Starbuccaneer's apron."

"But that's not very convenient for me, the consumer," said Guybrush.

"Here at Starbuccaneer's, we care less about the needs of the consumer, and more about the relationship we have with our competitors."

"Gee, that sounds great... hey! Wait a minute! I don't like that. I'm taking my business elsewhere."

"That's the beautiful part," said the counter clerk. "Because we have these agreements, there are no other coffee houses. So, if you want a coffee drink, this is the place!"

Guybrush couldn't believe he gotten to arguing microeconomics with this java jerk. He swallowed his pride and said, "Give me your best grog-flavored drink."

"That would be our iced grogoccino," said the counter clerk. "Grog flavored coffee beans, ground up over ice. Very refreshing."

That sounded twice as disgusting as before. But Guybrush, for a reason he didn't quite understand, felt compelled to try it. Maybe I'm just looking to have my worst fears confirmed, he thought.

But the counter clerk wasn't going to just give him the drink. He wanted 350 Jambalaya bucks. Guybrush didn't have even one Jambalaya buck. But he was a pirate, and he had a pirate's ingenuity, and after searching through the rows of fake plastic trees by the windows, he found a used coffee mug.

He approached the counter again. "You don't happen to offer free refills, do you?" he asked, showing the mug to the clerk.

As he'd thought, the clerk didn't challenge him. Probably he didn't have the authority. "You betcha, sir. I'll take care of that for you." He held the mug under the Cap'n-ccino™ machine. "Can't get enough of my sweet coffee goodness, can ya?" Coffee churned and frothed.

"Uhhh... just get me my groggocino, please," said Guybrush. The counter clerk wiped the bench below the machine, then gave him his drink. Guybrush looked at it suspiciously, then downed it in one scalding gulp.

The grog-flavor was bad, all right, but Guybrush didn't really notice. What he noticed was that the coffee was loaded with about two tons of caffeine. It burst into his brain and exploded behind his eyeballs. "Wooohoooo!" he yelled, a little shrilly. "Talk about your eyeopeners! I feel like I just drank an entire coffee plantation, donkeys and all!"

More than a little hyped-up, Guybrush went to talk to the tourist lady. Her voice was as loud as her clothes--or maybe it was just the coffee. He didn't catch a lot of what she said, but one thing caught his attention.

"You know, I believe the local diving competition has a trophy that looks that!" she said, Guybrush just having told her about the golden man on his Ultimate Insult diagram.

While she talked, Guybrush happened to glance into the open bag at her feet. There was a souvenir Starbuccaneer's mug in there. Guybrush wasn't interested in souvenirs, but it was silver, and the outline looked similar to that of the silver monkey head on his diagram. With practiced ease Guybrush distracted her and swiped the mug. Then he bid farewell to Mabel, the dental hygienist.

Walking to the door, something on the counter caught his eye. It was a tray of mini bagels, covered in Schmear Wiz™ ("A wonderfully delightful blend of artificial cream cheese and salmon lox bits with the convenience of a spray-on can!"). The samples were free, so Guybrush picked up one and tried it.

It was absolutely disgusting. Guybrush spat out in his hand. But he had an aversion to littering, so rather than drop the juicy wad of wet bagel chunks on the floor he put them in his pocket. He left the store.

Outside, the caffeine was really starting to kick in. Everything looked twice as bright as before. And the coffee seemed to have done something to his faculties as well, with the result that Guybrush ignored the Planet Threepwood store, the Microgroggery, even the large bronze statue in the middle of the square. The one thought he was capable of was simply, get the golden man. Somehow he found the path leading out of town, and started to skip down it merrily.

He was fully intending to head to the diving competition. He could see the diving platform ahead, a towering spire of rock over a limpid pool of clear green water. There were a couple of stands nearby, containing cheering tourists.

But a gaudy house nearby distracted his eye. It was quite tall, had much more character than the buildings at Jambalaya Township, was even more obviously in the middle of nowhere. And it was festooned with blinking Christmas lights. That decided Guybrush, and he went that way instead.

When he reached the house, he found it was actually Stan's Time Share Emporium. And standing out the front of the house, at a desk right in the bright sunshine, was none other than Stan himself.

Even in his current state Guybrush wondered what on earth Stan was doing here.

"Stan?" he said. "Is that you?"

Stan beamed. "Why, if it isn't my old friend, er, Bob!"

"It's Guybrush," said Guybrush.

"Of course it is, of course it is! Welcome to Stan's Real Estate Emporium! Where a deal's a deal and the real estate is real! What can I do for you, young man?"

A stack of pamphlets on the desk in front of Guybrush caught his eye. "Tell me about these pamphlets."

"Do yourself a favor and read them," said Stan. "They're full of all sorts of great information about Stan's Time Shares! Take one! They're free!" He practically forced one into Guybrush's hands. "That's the kind of guy I am! Just giving things away today!"

"Why is your desk outside?"

"Ah, what a beautiful day!" Stan said. He breathed in the air. "How can you work inside on a day like this!?"

Guybrush dug deeper. "Why are you really outside?"

"Just a small problem with the local vermin," admitted Stan. "It's the problem that's small, the vermin themselves are actually quite large. But it's nothing to worry about, it'll be taken care of right away! It's just a minor setback. What's important is that the time-share units are, legally-speaking, practically vermin free!"

Guybrush was suddenly suspicious. Not about the vermin: about Stan. After all, he and Ozzie were both businessmen... "Are you working for Ozzie Mandrill?" he asked.

Stan's cheerful face suddenly clouded. "Ozzie Mandrill?" He looked angrily at the ground. "Let me tell you something about Ozzie Mandrill, kid. Ozzie Mandrill doesn't know squat about being a real entrepreneur. He doesn't know the thrill of haggling, the ecstasy of a hard-earned sale, the agony of a lost customer. All Ozzie wants are orderly lines of zombies, queuing up to purchase his pre-fabricated, pre-priced, pre-processed garbage! I ask you, kid, where's the fun in that, huh? Where's the love?"

"He wouldn't hire you?" asked Guybrush.

"Not even an interview," said Stan glumly.

"You're hawking real estate now?" asked Guybrush.

"Time-shares, my good man," corrected Stan. "Looking for a second home? Investment property? A little extra income? Look no further! You can't afford not to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! And, for the next twenty-four hours, just for listening to my pitch, you get a coupon for a free Monkey Mug at Planet Threepwood!"

It sounded good to Guybrush's caffeine-addled brain. "Gimme the pitch!"

"Smart decision, my friend! You'll thank me after you've heard about this exciting opportunity. Stay with me, the full pitch takes just under three hours!"

"Eep," said Guybrush.

Stan was already moving into hard-sell mode. His arms flailed as he spoke. "Be prepared to be stunned by what I have to tell you! What's the best investment for your hard-earned cash? The stock market? No, too volatile. Duck food futures? No, ducks have short life-spans! Porcelain figurines?"

"Ewww..." said Guybrush.

"No, too fragile. What then? Two words! Time share!! That's right! Real estate! Let me show you how a small investment today can compound into an incredible fortune in a just few short generations!"

Three hours later...

Stan hadn't been kidding about the length. At any other time Guybrush would have been catatonic within ten minutes. But the caffeine jolt in his system kept him wide awake and alert--not necessarily a good thing. He'd gone through it all now and was just sobering up. Fortunately, Stan was also nearing the end of his spiel.

"So who's excited and ready to invest?" he said.

"Uh, gosh, that sounds interesting," said Guybrush. "But I need to check with my wife first."

"You bet! Gotta check with the missus. Wouldn't want to wind up in the ol' doghouse, eh? Right! Well, thanks for listening! Have this coupon for a free Monkey Mug at Planet Threepwood from your old friend Stan!"

Guybrush took the coupon from him and made his way back along the path. He glanced toward the beach. According to Stan's spiel, all that real estate was just begging to be sold off as time share. But it was the landmass further off that caught his eye. An offshore island, smaller than Jambalaya. Knuttin Attoll.

Mr. Cheese had pointed out Knuttin Attoll to him as they came into dock. Whereas Jambalaya Island seemed to exist in permanent sunshine, Knuttin Attoll always looked like storm clouds were closing overhead. And indeed it was cloudy above Knuttin at the moment, casting the little island in gloom.

There were few buildings on Knuttin, and those he could see were broken down and old. Guybrush wondered if there might be any pirates out there.

He shrugged and continued towards the diving competition area.

It had been quite noisy when he'd first come this way, with loud splashes and gasps from the crowd. But for the moment, it was quiet.

Guybrush stood and took in the scene.

Right in front of him, at the base of a spiraling spike of rock, was a deep circular pool of water. A gently curving path had been cut into the rock, twirling steadily upwards until it reached the top, where a narrow wooden plank had been built over the pool. It looked about fifty feet high. Up there at the moment was a tall, graceful man. He was wearing a skintight bathing suit, over an impressively muscled upper body.

At one side of the pool of water, a wide desk had been placed near the edge, only just out of splash radius. Behind the desk sat three people. They looked like diving judges. Guybrush couldn't see a golden statue anywhere.

On the other side, further back, were two bleachers, on which sat various tourist groups. The bleachers were only half full at the moment, but there was an air of anticipation about the crowd. Necks were craned up at the diver above.

He walked out onto the plank, jumped twice, and dived, executing a complicated series of twists and turns on his way down. His entry into the water barely disturbed the surface.

The three judges all raised cards into the air reading '10'. The crowd applauded.

The diver climbed smoothly out of the water and walked toward a small changing tent by the poolside. His wet hair was slicked to the back of his scalp.

No doubt, a professional plank diver. If Guybrush wanted to get his hands on that trophy, this would be the guy he had to beat.

Guybrush wandered over. "Nice dive," he said.

"Thank you my friend," said the diver. "I fear that my skills have atrophied as of late, though. I'm not half the diver I used to be." He talked with a faint Spanish accent.

"P'shaw. That was one of the best plank dives I've ever seen."

The diver looked at him curiously. "And who are you, that would take such pains to flatter an aging plank diver?"

That sentence required an assertive response. "I'm Guybrush Threepwood, plank diver!" said Guybrush.

"Welcome to Jambalaya Island, Mr. Threepwood," said the diver. "I am Marco de Pollo, undefeated and undisputed Plank Diving Champion of the World!"

Oh? Are you really? "Are you really the greatest diver in the world?" asked Guybrush politely.

"Yes. I've spent years searching the planet for someone who could better me in the art of the plank dive.. but to no avail."

"How sad," said Guybrush. "What are you doing on Jambalaya Island™?"

"Ah, that's an interesting story."

"Is it a short story?"

"About a year ago, I despaired of ever finding my diving equal, and was prepared to hang up my trunks forever."

"Eww."

"At this crucial moment, Señor Ozzie Mandrill approached me with an intriguing proposition."

"Am I old enough to hear this?" asked Guybrush.

The interruptions weren't fazing Marco. "He told me that he was building the tallest artificial plank-diving platform in the world, and that he was willing to pay obscene amounts of money to have the World's Greatest Plank Diver compete on it on a daily basis. Since I was ready to retire in any event, I figured, why not retire in the comfort of a luxury resort island?"

"Makes sense to me," said Guybrush.

"Besides, there's always the chance that someone will come along who can finally challenge my skills."

"How did you get into plank diving, anyway?" asked Guybrush.

"Ah, that is a story rife with melancholy," said Marco. "Are you sure you wish to hear it?"

"Are you kidding? I love stories rife with melancholy," said Guybrush insincerely.

"Very well," said Marco. He cleared his throat. "It begins with my father, Count Francisco Alvarez de Pollo. He was a man of peculiar moods and eccentricities. In one of his so-called 'lighter' moments, he named his only son 'Marco,' much to the consternation of his wife and extended family."

Guybrush couldn't see the problem here. "Why the fuss?"

"I take it you have never been in a public swimming pool," said Marco.

"Pirates don't have much use for them."

"Ah, then allow me to elaborate. At the tender age of six I was sent to my first swimming lesson. Oh, how I happily splashed about, taking to the water like a worm to dirt. Suddenly, someone shouted my name.. Marcooo!" He still looked a little uncomfortable at the memory. "I turned to see who it was. Before I could find who had called my name, everyone in the pool shouted in response... Poloooo. I couldn't understand what was happening. Why were they shouting my name in such an annoying sing-song manner? Why were they closing their eyes to my obvious torment? I tried to get them to stop, but they just kept chanting my name, over and over again..." Marco was getting quite worked up. Obviously he hadn't quite gotten over this childhood trauma yet.

"Unable to tolerate it any further," he continued, "I climbed to the highest diving board in the pool, and cannonballed into the center of the taunting masses. As I hit the water with a resounding ker-splash, the haunting chants of my classmates finally gave way to comforting screams of terror." He smiled.

"What a horrible story," said Guybrush.

"Yes, but at least I gained a lucrative career out of my childhood trauma," said Marco proudly.

"Do you still dive to drown out the voices of the taunting children?"

"Oh no. Now I'm in it for the thrill of victory and the lure of a fat paycheck. The fact that it provides a temporary balm to my permanent psychological damage is purely a side-benefit."

That's good," said Guybrush. "I'd hate to think there was something weird going on here." It was time to move on to more important matters. "So, is this diving competition open to anyone?" he asked.

"Hardly. If I were to compete against everyone who wanted to get their hands on the solid gold All-World Diving Trophy, I'd be diving twenty-four hours a day."

"Oh." So there is a gold trophy around here somewhere. "So who do you dive against?"

"The judges' panel over there does an excellent job of weeding out the poseurs from the serious divers," said Marco.

Guybrush thanked him, and headed in that direction. As he neared the judges' table, he finally saw the gold trophy. It was on a small pedestal to the left of the judges' table. The trophy was that of a diving man, arms fully outstretched, and looked about ten inches high. It gleamed in the sunlight.

The judges looked at him as he approached. They were a strange group: an bored, cheesed off aristocratic fellow, an inscrutable Oriental, and an aging gray-haired hippie. Their names, as Guybrush would eventually learn, were Judge Edd, Judge Kahuna, and Judge Tripps.

"Excuse me," said Guybrush.

"Hey, little dude," said Tripps. "What's up?"

"So what's going on here?" asked Guybrush. It was always best to start at the beginning.

"We're the judges for Jambalaya's All-World Diving Contest," said Kahuna.

"Actually, it's more like a free-for-all than a contest," said Edd sharply.

"Dude, quit projecting your negative vibes," said Tripps.

Guybrush looked longingly at the trophy. "I'd like to take a crack at winning that diving trophy," he said.

"You and dozens of other gold-hunting wannabes," said Edd.

"If you wish to dive, you must be certified first," said Kahuna.

"Why?"

"We could leave ourselves open to grievous lawsuits if we let physically uncool people try to dive," said Tripps.

"If you'll just step behind the table..." said Kahuna.

"There won't be any word problems, will there?" asked Guybrush, stepping behind the judging panel and disappearing from view. The judges dropped down from their chairs, also disappearing from view. The watching audience had only their ears to work out what happened next.

"Hey, what're you doing with that?"

"Please turn to the right, dude."

"You're not gonna put that there, are you?"

"Let me know when this begins to hurt..."

"Yeoooowch!"

But it all turned out okay, and several minutes later Guybrush was back out the front of the panel.

"...and another thing," he continued, "I think the staple gun was completely uncalled for!"

"Be that as it may, you have passed the physical," said Kahuna.

"Really?"

"Don't act so shocked; you'd have to be a palsy-ridden grandmother to fail," said Edd grumpily.

Tripps handed him a slip of paper. "Here's your certificate; feel free to challenge our champion diver whenever you want to dive."

Now he could challenge Marco de Pollo to a dive. But Guybrush hesitated. Marco had executed some extremely impressive moves on the way down. Anyone could jump off a plank fifty feet in the air-the idea didn't fill Guybrush with dread--but he wasn't so sure about the diving maneuvers he'd have to perform.

So he asked the judges some further questions about plank diving. Judge Tripps was most helpful, explaining to him the four basic diving moves, and even giving him a short pamphlet showing how to execute them.

Guybrush looked at the diagrams. This would require some practice. Maybe it might be best to head back to the ship, do some diving there, then take on Marco...

But before he made it back to the ship, he saw the bronze statue.

It stood in the center of the Jambalaya Town square, a tall wide-shouldered man who beamed out over the bare cobblestones. But the top of its head was missing--it looked like someone had taken a crowbar to the statue. Could it have been wearing a hat?

Guybrush was looking for a bronze hat.

He read the inscription on the statue plaque. 'Tiny LaFeet - Cuius Praeda Est?'.

Someone else had also taken an interest in the statue. He was a fairly short tourist. He looked at the statue with great interest, and now he was starting to look curiously at Guybrush as well.

"Pardon me," said Guybrush.

"Yes?"

"What kind of pirate are you?" asked Guybrush. He didn't think this guy was any kind of pirate, but it was a better initial question than what on earth are you doing here?

"A pirate, moi?" asked the tourist. His British accent was very noticeable. "Heaven forbid, old bean. I'm just a humble tourist."

"You're pretty brave for a tourist," said Guybrush. "Most tourists would steer clear of pirate-infested islands."

"Normally, you'd be right," said the tourist. "In the past I've avoided islands like Jambalaya because of their 'pirate problems.' But my tour guide assured me that Jambalaya has been scrubbed clean of its more 'undesirable' pirate elements, if you catch my drift."

"What would you say if I told you that I was one of those 'undesirable' pirate elements?" said Guybrush.

The tourist smiled at him. "You? Don't be so hard on yourself. You may be little smelly, and your manners could use some improvement, but you're not even one-tenth as vile one of those rapacious brigands that used to roam this island."

I think I've just been insulted, thought Guybrush. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The tourist looked at the statue. I'm admiring the craftsmanship of this statue of Jambalaya's most famous pirate:  Tiny LaFeet."

"What made Tiny so famous?" asked Guybrush.

"He was 'The Friendly Pirate of Jambalaya Island™'. 'He robbed from the bad, and gave to the nice. And he always said please and thank you... twice!' He's the perfect symbol of the new, non-threatening, Jambalaya Island™.

Guybrush looked at the statue with sudden suspicion. "Was there really a Tiny LaFeet, or was he dreamed up by someone's marketing department?"

"Oh, he's real all right," said the tourist. "I hear his son lives across the bay on Knuttin Atoll."

"What happened to the top of the statue?" asked Guybrush. "It looks like someone gave Tiny a bad haircut."

"I'm not sure," said the tourist. "Rumor has it that some vandalous pirates from Knuttin Atoll stole the statue's hat."

So there are pirates on Knuttin Attoll! thought Guybrush.

"But I don't believe it," said the tourist. "They do a pretty good job of keeping those types off of Jambalaya."

Guybrush couldn't take this any longer. "All that stuff about 'Tiny, the Friendly Pirate' is a big fat lie," he said. "The real Tiny LaFeet was a nasty, murderous lout."

The tourist looked at him solemnly. "Maybe you're right, but who cares? It's the myth of a friendly pirate that's important, not the sordid details of history."

Guybrush excused himself before he said anything more intemperate, and headed for the ship. To cool off his brain, he spent the next half an hour diving from the ship. By the end of the session he knew the various moves perfectly.

Somehow he couldn't face going back there just at the moment. Knuttin Attoll, with its real pirates, sounded far more appealing to him. But it might not do to go sailing there in the Dainty Lady - even if it was currently seaworthy, which Cheese was telling him it was not. Stealth would be required for this mission...

The Mêlée Island™ election had begun. In fact it was nearly over. All day Charles and Elaine had been standing out the front of the Town Hall, handing out their how-to-vote cards and doing their best to appeal to the voters.

Elaine couldn't recall a more dispiriting day. None of her citizens seemed to want anything to do with her. She still held almost all the cards she'd printed up (they all simply said, 'Charles is LeChuck'). Half the people walking up to the Town Hall she didn't recognize, and those that she did, avoided her with varying degrees of politeness.

Charles, on the other hand, had been doing a roaring trade. He smiled broadly at the arriving voters, gave them their directions, and thanked them for their support.

The last stragglers were turning up now. She didn't know any of these people. Elaine hadn't given up yet, but there was something desperate in her smile now.

She held out a card to one of the pirates. "Hi! Hey! Thanks for coming out to vote! Remember, a vote for me is a vote against demon-spawned hell-pirates!"

The pirate shook his head, walked past her disinterestedly, and took a card from Charles. Charles beamed. ""Thanks for your support, citizen!" He shook hands with him warmly. "Good Times and Free Grog are just around the corner!"

Elaine couldn't take any more. As the next pirate approached she pleaded to him, arms outstretched. "Don't vote for Charles! He's really LeChuck, the demon zombie ghost pirate from Hell!"

The pirate looked pityingly at her. "Oh give it up, Mrs. Threepwood. Everyone knows that LeChuck is dead, and that your husband killed him!" He walked past. "You'll have to excuse her, Mr. Charles," he said to Charles.

"Think nothing of it, my good man!" said Charles, showing the pirate to the end of the voting queue.

Then he grinned, and with a flash turned into the rotting, putrescent form of Zombie LeChuck.

Elaine pointed at him, excitedly. "Aha! Ah! There, there, you see?" she shouted. LeChuck thumbed his nose at her. "Charles is LeChuck, look?"

Before the pirates couldn't turn around, Charles had turned back to normal. He shrugged his shoulders at them, all innocence. Some of the pirates looked at Elaine like she was mentally disturbed.

The last pirates filed into the Town Hall. Charles took a look around; the square was completely deserted. "Well, that should just about wrap things up," he said. "I think I'll go pack my bags, and get ready to move into the Governor's mansion. Ha ha ha!"

Elaine, shoulders slumped, dropped the how-to-vote cards on the ground and trudged away.

Back on Jambalaya Island, Guybrush was scoping out alternative transport to Knuttin Atoll. A small sign near the Dainty Lady read, "Community Rowboat."  Guybrush eyed the craft in question dubiously.  It was small but definitely seaworthy--and it wasn't pink.

He rowed out north toward Knuttin Atoll.  Only a narrow channel of water stood between him and the bronze hat. 

The sea was warm, the wind was calm, the garishly bright shores of Jambalaya could almost be ignored...

Then he heard the unmistakable whistle of an oncoming cannonball. 

"Fire!" 

"Aiee!!"  Guybrush shrieked preemptively, but the projectile fell short by a good ten feet.

"Get over here!" snapped an oddly accented voice.  He turned to see the source--a man in a bright red coat standing on the deck of a large warship.  One of her cannons was still smoking.

Guybrush rowed over with a speed born of righteous indignation.  "Are you crazy?" he yelled up at the redcoat.  "You could have killed me!"

"'Crazy'?"  The man, one Admiral Casaba, was unapologetic.  "I'm not the one flagrantly violating the Rules and Regulations of Knuttin Atoll!"  He looked down with a predatory grin and added "What's your name, sailor?"

Something about Casaba's too-white teeth and the cannon muzzles pointed directly at him warranted respect.  "Um...Guybrush Threepwood. Sir."

Casaba smiled even more broadly, something Guybrush hadn't thought possible.  "Now.  What is your business on Knuttin Atoll?"

"I'm just looking around."  The cannon muzzle was still smoking.  "Sir."

Something nagged at him.  The ship... it wasn't quite right.  The sails were set differently, and Casaba's uniform--

This wasn't a pirate ship.  This was the vessel of some non-pirate armada.  What were more outsiders doing in the Caribbean?

There on the sail was a painted koala.  Ozzie.  I should have known....

"....do you have any questions?" Casaba finished.  He hadn't been listening. 

Guybrush decided to be direct.  "Why are you firing cannonballs at innocent pirates?"

Casaba's eyes (unlike his sharkish grin) narrowed.  "Mister Threepwood, it is my experience that there are only two kinds of pirates: those who are committing acts of wanton savagery and those who are planning to commit acts of wanton savagery."  His piratophobia was painfully obvious.  Perhaps he was a latent pirate?  "If you allow groups of the latter to congregate for any length of time, they inevitably transform into mobs of the former!"  His teeth dared Guybrush to disagree with him.

"What are you doing here?" the mighty pirate asked instead. 

The Admiral drew himself up with great self-importance.  "I have been assigned the singular honor..." Guybrush started to tune him out again "...of guarding Ozzie Mandrill's commercial interests on Jambalaya Island." 

That got Guybrush's full attention.  Casaba continued.  "To this end, I have rounded up all of Jambalaya's scrofulous pirate trash and transported them to Knuttin Atoll-where they will remain until they have become productive members of society."

Guybrush was struggling to keep his face neutral.  So this is what Ozzie is doing with all the pirates....  He was putting them in isolation until they were 're-educated'--and setting people like the fanatical Casaba to guard them.  If this continued, no pirate would be safe. 

Casaba misinterpreted his expression.  "Don't worry.  I hear that Mister Mandrill has some secret plan to re-educate them all at once!"

The Ultimate Insult.  Guybrush had a sudden vision of Otis offering samples of Eau de LeChuck....

He excused himself and fled.  "Good lad," Casaba called cheerfully after him.  "Remember...I'm watching you!"

It was hard for him to describe Knuttin Atoll later, when he told the story to Elaine, but as he landed the rowboat, he was immediately aware of how dark it was, and how hopeless.  All the sand was a dull gray color, the palm trees were dead and dying-and, eeriest of all, there was no sound.  Even Melee hadn't looked this bad when he first arrived, but Knuttin...  Knuttin was a ruined island waiting to die..

Still, there were signs of life.  Ahead were about four or five rough little huts, apparently cobbled together out of whatever the occupants could find to build with.   Off to the west was a dim glow that looked like a campfire, and someone had even put a signpost up pointing to various island locations... "Knuttin Beach, 1 kilometer.  Jambalaya Island, 3 kilometers."

And, incongruously, a clean, blue and white building stood a short distance away from the pirate shanty town.  It looked ridiculously out of place, but it also made the other buildings seem even more pitiful.

He shivered.  The thick fog blocked most of the sunlight, and the drab beach was chilly.  He ventured out quietly toward the town, looking back every now and then at his rowboat, a little worried some other pirate might steal it and leave him stranded here.  But he could hear voices ahead, distantly, and the thought of someone else to talk to drew him on.

A little puppet Guybrush and a little puppet LeChuck were having a conversation in a little puppet stage, putting on a show for no one in particular.  Fascinated, Guybrush listened for a moment. 

"MAIMING!" bellowed Lil' LeChuck.  That was in character.

"Well, yes, but I think you need to rationalize--" Lil' Guybrush began in a reasonable voice.

"VIOLENCE!"

"Right, now we're getting somewhere. Let's move on to--"

"WENCHES!"

What a strange conversation these two people must be having, Guybrush thought.

"Well, that's obvious, naturally, but what about--"

"MORE WENCHES!"

"Now you're just being obstinate.."

Guybrush's approach halted whatever Lil' LeChuck might have said in reply.  Lil' Guybrush ducked down behind the stage, out of sight.

"Who're you?"

"Arrrr!  I be Hellbeard the Unrepentant, the scourge of the seven seas!" Lil' LeChuck snarled in proper pirate form.  Guybrush felt slightly cheered-at least one person around here had spirit.

He decided to play along. "Hellbeard.  I think I've heard of you.."

"Of course you've heard of me!  I'm the nastiest pirate in the world!"

Guybrush could believe it.  He'd heard stories about how Hellbeard once cut off the heads of thirty men with a sharpened sp-heeyyyyyyy, wait a minute.  "Hellbeard the Unrepentant died over 80 years ago!"

"Do I look dead to you?" snapped Lil' LeChuck.

"No, you look like a sock," Guybrush countered. 

The puppet did not deign to reply.

"If you're Hellbeard..." a big if "...where have you been for the last 80 years?"

"Um....er..." floundered Lil' LeChuck "Look! Over there!" 

Guybrush looked--and when he turned back, Lil' Guybrush had replaced his fellow puppet.

He should've known better than to fall for that one.  "Who're you?" Guybrush wondered.

"I'm Hellbeard the Unrepentant, of course," replied the puppet in calm and authoritative tones.

"Why can I only talk to one of you at a time?"

"Because of that paranoid jerk, Admiral Casaba."  The little button eyes actually looked irritated for a second.  "Whenever he sees three or more pirates talking, he immediately assumes they're plotting some sort of mischief.  So he lobs a cannonball at them!" 

Guybrush remembered Casaba's trigger-happy ways only too well.  "Can't he tell the difference between pirates and puppets?"

"I don't know if you've noticed....but Casaba's not too bright."

"Do you know anything about the Ultimate Insult?" 

Voice and puppet sighed.  "If only I didn't."  Guybrush's story-radar perked up.  "Many years ago, I was the last pirate to be exposed to the Ultimate Insult.  In one fell swoop, its devastating jibes utterly destroyed my once-indomitable ego."

So that explained it.  The bold piratey personality and the vicious piratey personality of Hellbeard had actually split off, talking through the puppets.  He wondered what was left of the man....

"Can I talk to your puppeteer?," he asked Lil' Guybrush.

"I'd rather you didn't.  We're trying to protect him."

"C'mon," Guybrush wheedled.  "Let me talk to the puppeteer."

"Well, all right.  But don't make any sudden moves."

"I'll be as gentle as a baby dolphin," he promised.

Lil' Guybrush went behind the stage, and a cowering, tattered old man who might have been a pirate once peeked up.  "You must be Hellbeard," Guybrush said.  Gently.

"If you say so, sir," the old man whimpered.  His eyes didn't quite focus, and it was hard to tell whether he was going to break down in tears or run screaming.

"Do you know anything about the Ultimate Insult?" asked Guybrush.  Hellbeard's trembling intensified at once, but he denied it.  Apparently the mental block was just too strong.

So much for baby dolphinage.  Guybrush pulled the painting out and turned it to show Hellbeard the sketch on the back.  "It looks like this."

"Th-th-th-" Hellbeard went greenish-gray and for a second Guybrush thought he would pass out.  "Th-th-the Ultimate Insult!?!  AAAAAAAEEEAAAAUGH!!"

With a terrified scream, he bolted into one of the huts and slammed the door.

Lil' Guybrush and Lil' LeChuck lay discarded on the sand.  "I guess that was just the kind of breakthrough he needed to mend his shattered psyche," Guybrush mused.  Either that or Hellbeard was worse off than before.  But he hoped he'd done some good, because he certainly wasn't any closer to the Ultimate Insult.

He slipped the two puppets into his pockets, quickly, before Casaba could fling a cannonball at him, and set off towards the glow of the distant campfire he'd seen earlier.  He could see the silhouettes of two figures, talking.

As he'd expected, his fellow pirates were delighted to see him.

"You idiot!" yelled a tough-but-tattered pirate woman.

"What do you think you're doing?" demanded her companion, an exceedingly large man with a sharp piratey uniform and two parrots on his shoulders.

Guybrush was taken off guard.  "What's the matter?"

"He'll see us, you ignoramus!"

"I'm outta here," declared the woman, running off, even as a distant voice yelled "Fire!"

Whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, whistled some oncoming projectile.  "Uh....you might wanna move a couple of feet to your left," the large man advised. 

Casaba!  Guybrush leaped to one side just as a cannonball plowed into the sand where he'd been standing.  

"Gee, thanks." 

"You're welcome.  Now go away, so I can resume my discussion with the delightful Miss Daisy."  When Guybrush showed no signs of leaving, the larger man scowled.  "Who are you, you annoying little miscreant?"

"I'm Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate."

"Jumbeaux LaFeet."  He drew himself up even taller.  "Last of the LaFeet pirates."

Guybrush remembered the statue--and the bronze hat he was over here to find.  "Any relation to Tiny LaFeet?"

Jumbeaux sniffled.  "Tiny was my....father."

As it turned out, the legend of Tiny the Friendly Pirate was a vicious fabrication invented by Ozzie's tourism council to attract visitors.  Tiny had been just as foul and dirty as any other pirate--how dare they blacken his memory by making him look upright and moral?  The bronze statue in the center of Jambalaya's tourist district so offended Jumbeaux that he made a midnight venture into town to sabotage it.  He stole back his father's hat, now covered in bronze, and buried it beneath a large rock on the beach.  There it remained. 

"Your father would have been proud of your piratey prowess."

"Thanks.  Unfortunately, my raid inspired Mandrill to hire Casaba..."  Jumbeaux was annoyed but unrepentant.  "And now Knuttin Atoll is nothing more than a prison for pirates who don't share Mandrill's 'vision.'

This was a promising lead nonetheless.  "If I find your father's hat, can I borrow it?" asked Guybrush.

"I don't know."  He looked Guybrush over suspiciously.  "Why do you want it?"

"I'm going to use it to crush Ozzie Mandrill like a bug," Guybrush promised darkly.

"Really?  Oh, that's great."  Jumbeaux beamed.  "Sure, if you find it, you can use it."

Guybrush was already headed for the beach.  "Goodbye, little pirate!" the last of the LaFeets called after him.

Guybrush emerged onto the beach-and stopped dead.  Row after row of identical boulders met his eyes.  He'd need a guide to find the right boulder.

Which is how he wound up at the Pirate Transmogrification Center.

He approached the neat, blue and white building with trepidation.  A pleasant-looking, grandmotherly woman stood on the front porch.  She was obviously the schoolteacher.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"What can I do for you, young man?"

"Did you know that there's a crazed lunatic lurking on your shore?"

"Oh, you mean that brave Admiral Casaba?"

Guybrush gave it up.  "This is kind of a strange place for a school," he ventured instead.

"This isn't your average school, dearie," she replied calmly. "This is the Ozzie Mandrill Pirate Transmogrification Center." 

"Transwhatification?"

"Transmogrification."  She sounded eternally patient.  "We take barbaric, foul-smelling pirates (like yourself).." Guybrush was delighted to be recognized.. "and transform them into prim, productive, and polite members of the emerging consumer-based economy."

He was stunned.  "Th-that's the most nefariously evil thing I've ever heard!"

"Oh, now sweetie...don't knock it 'til you've tried it."  She gave him a faintly admonishing look from behind her thick-lensed glasses.

Guybrush deliberated.  "Okay.  I'm tired of being a slimy pirate.  Sign me up."

"Wonderful!" she cooed.  "Just go in and take a seat, and you'll soon be on your way to a brighter tomorrow."

He followed her graying bun of hair into the classroom itself, which was bright and colorful and clean and well-lit.  He nearly bolted then, but she distracted him with crayons until his two other classmates arrived and school was in session...

Several hours later....

"..and that's why keelhauling is bad," finished a dark-haired female pirate.

"Very nice, Yangja," applauded their teacher, whose name was Miss Rivers (a wholly owned subsidiary of Ozzie Mandrill Enterprises).  "Now, class, let's move along to your final exam.  Three questions that will account for 90% of your grade."

Guybrush started to protest.  "That doesn't seem fair!"

"Don't get smart with me, sonny."  Miss Rivers snapped her long pointer stick against his desk top.  Guybrush apologized.

"Let's begin.  Yangja?"

There was a parrot whistle on the floor.  Guybrush had been eyeing it for the better part of the last hour, wondering how to pick it up without being caught.

"Yes, Miss Rivers?" asked the woman respectfully.

"After drinking too much grog, a friend of 20 years teases you about your haircut.  What is your reaction?"

Miss Rivers' attention was finally off him.  He extended his left leg as far as he could.  Closer....just a little more..

Yangja grimaced.  "I...have a good chuckle at my own expense and toast my friend's rapier-like wit?" she answered, the words obviously coming unwillingly.

"Good," said Miss Rivers, her tone implying that this was not good at all.  Yangja hung her head.  "Now then, Guybrush..."

Startled, he snatched the foot back.  The whistle skittered slightly closer.

"Yes, Miss Rivers?"  He tried to look composed, but the escaped toy was a distraction.

"A stranger approaches you and asks for the time.  How do you respond?"

Time?  What would he care about the time?  "I brush the stranger off with a scowl," he said shortly.

"Hmmm."  Miss Rivers sounded less than pleased.  She turned her attention to the other pirate, a balding man named Mungle, and Guybrush resumed work on the toy.  "You see a man accosting another with a sword.  What do you do?" 

"I run the attacker through with my trusty sword!"  Guybrush grinned and pinned the elusive whistle under one foot.  Miss Rivers failed to appreciate Mungle's pirate spirit.

Question Round Two.  "Yangja....  Your tofu burger is delivered medium-well, despite your explicit request for medium-rare.  How do you react?"

Again, the woman looked like she'd rather be anywhere but here. "I grudgingly eat the burger while hoping service improves during my next visit."

"Hmmm..  Mungle..  A member of the opposite sex rebuffs your advances.  How do you cope?"

"I...I write a dirty limerick about her on the restroom wall!"  Mungle's face lit up with this sudden burst of creativity, but Miss Rivers was less impressed.  And then it was Guybrush's turn. 

"While reading a book of poetry in the library, what appears to be a treasure map falls out of the book.  What's your plan of action?"

Guybrush hesitated.  For one, he'd never be reading a book of poetry.  But if he ever fell into that unlikely situation, he'd probably just take the map quietly and go find the treasure.  Which would be the wrong answer.  There was no way to win.  And maybe he didn't want to...

He thought about Ozzie and the Scumm Bar and Tiny and Jumbeaux....and all those dead animals, and Charles L. Charles.... 

And then he looked Miss Rivers in the eye and did his best imitation of LeChuck.  "I hunt down and kill everyone who's checked out the book," he snarled.  "Then, after I kill their families, their friends and their pets, I hunt down the treasure!  Arrr!!"

Miss Rivers recoiled.  It was a beautiful moment.  "Miss Rivers? I think Guybrush needs a Time Out," whined Yangja.

The teacher moved on as quickly as she could.  Guybrush stooped down and drew the whistle under his desk, waiting...

"Yangja, while delivering Christmas toys to orphans on a nearby island, you notice a passing ship that's obviously taken on too much cargo.  What do you do?"

"I hail the captain of the passing vessel and ask him if he needs any assistance."

This sounded reasonable to him, but apparently not to Miss Rivers.  Mungle's answer to "Your captain has plotted a course directly through the Heart of the Devil's Triangle.  What do you do?" was equally unsatisfactory, and eventually Miss Rivers returned to Guybrush's desk. 

"And finally, Mister Threepwood...."  She seemed nervous.  "A scruffy-looking stranger offers you a grog.  What's your response?"

Guybrush twisted his expression into something close to demonic.  "I accept the grog.." pause for dramatic effect "...poison his own, and steal his treasure!  ARRRRRR!!"

"Cripes, you are hardcore!" Mungle exclaimed .

Miss Rivers collected herself.  "Well, I've added up your scores, and I must say I'm very disappointed."  Guybrush ducked down.  "Mungle....Yangja...  I'm afraid you both fail."

"But why?" demanded the woman.  "I got every answer right!"

"Yes, dear.  But your attitude sucks." 

"This is just unfair."

"So's life, sweetie.  Get used to it."

Yangja got up and walked out of the room.

"And then we have Guybrush...."  Miss River's sweet tone was turning sour. "Guybrush, Guybrush, Guybrush.....I've been teaching this course for months, and I can safely say..."  She drew a very deep breath.  "That you are the single worst student I've ever met!  I've picked lint out of my belly button with more learning potential than you!"

Guybrush flinched.  Yangja paused and stood in the doorframe, listening with a smirk.

"Now," huffed Miss Rivers, "in order to guarantee that you never darken my school's doorstep again, and to stigmatize you for the rest of your (hopefully-short) life," she waddled across the room, grabbed a tall pointed cap from one of the desk, and shoved it down onto his head, "I'm strapping this to your stubborn pirate head in hopes that humiliation will succeed where education failed.

"Now get out of my classroom and never return!"

Guybrush pulled the hat off his head once outside the door.  "Dunce," it read.  He stuffed it angrily into his pocket.

"Yeah, I may be a dunce," he yelled at the school, "but at least I'm a Mighty Pirate Dunce!"

Parrot whistle in hand, he returned to the beach.  He had never felt prouder of any failure in his entire life.

Back on the boulder beach, he blew the whistle.  "Bwaaugh!"

He heard an answering Sqwak! from overhead, and with a noisy flutter of wings, Jumbeaux's two green parrots landed on the boulder nearest him.  They blinked at him curiously.

"They're identical twins," Jumbeaux had said.  "They're special parrots."

"Special how?  Do they sing light operas."

"No.  But they are cursed with powerful voodoo magic.  One of them always tells the truth, and the other one always lies--isn't that right, fellas?"

"Bwak!  Yes!" sqwaked one.

"Brawk!  No!" replied the other.

Immediately they had taken flight, crossed paths in the air, and settled on Jumbeaux's shoulders again.  Guybrush couldn't tell which had said "yes."

Jumbeaux had  sighed.  "If I knew which one was which, they'd be tremendously useful.  As it is, they're rather annoying." 

  Guybrush wondered if they knew where Tiny's hat was buried.  "Do you?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"No!"

They took flight and landed again.  This was no help at all.  He pulled out his near-empty groggachino mug and hoped the caffeine rush would last long enough for him to move a few boulders.

One parrot eyed the contents curiously.  Guybrush grinned inwardly and let it drink the few remaining drops, wondering what the reaction would be.

The overstimulated parrot immediately began hopping in place.  It was now quite easy to tell the two apart.

"What's two plus two?" he asked.

"Four!" sqwacked the normal parrot.

"Five!" sqwacked the bouncing parrot.

Guybrush grinned even more broadly.  "Is Tiny's hat buried under this boulder?" he asked once they landed again.

"No!" said the truthful parrot.

"Yes!" said the lying parrot, bouncing.

He waited for them to land.  "Which way should I go?"

"Bwak!  East!" replied the calm parrot.

East he went.  "This boulder?"

"No!"

"Which way?"

"North!"

It took a long time....but after dozens of boulders, his truth-telling parrot finally said "Yes!"  Then both flew back to Jumbeaux, apparently bored with this game.

Guybrush examined the boulder.  It was larger than he was.  Moving it in any way was out of the question, especially without caffeine.  The tiny amount in the cup only made him feel hyper.

He sat down against the boulder with the Guybrush and LeChuck puppets and started a conversation. 

"Hi there, Li'l Guybrush."

"Hi there, Big Guybrush!" chirped the blond puppet in Guybrush's best falsetto.

"Hi there, Li'l LeChuck."

"Arrr!  Ahoy there, Big Guybrush." 

"What's on your mind, Li'l Guybrush?" he asked his puppet.

"I think Admiral Casaba's a big dope, don't you?" the puppet squealed.

"Oh, I don't know, Li'l Guybrush."  Big Guybrush was enjoying this.  "What do you think, Li'l LeChuck?"

"I think Li'l Guybrush wouldn't know a real pirate if it stabbed him in the liver!"

"I think Li'l LeChuck is a smelly undead creep," retorted the blond puppet.

"I think Li'l Guybrush should learn to sleep with one ping-pong ball eye open!"

"Oh, yeah?!"

"Yeah!"

Guybrush tried to interject.  "Now, boys..."

The puppets ran right over him.  "Amoral lout!"

"Pirate poseur!"

"Unemployed layabout!"

"Effete doily-sniffer!"

"Uncultured corpse!"

"Uhh....fellas?" 

"Girly-man!"

"Wimp!"

"Jerk!"

I really think that's loud enough to catch Casaba's attention, Guybrush thought.

"Loser!"

"Nimrod!"

"Pantywaist!"

"Idiot!"

Guybrush sighed.  "I've obviously got some deep-seated issues to work out here..."

"MORON!"

"SPAZ!"

"JERK!"

"IDIOT!"

"NIMROD!"

"DORK!"

"Why, those ignorant, anarchist savages!" cried Casaba, observing the discussion through a spyglass.  "How dare they plot against my benevolent tyranny?  Simpkins!  Wheel out the Really Big Cannon!"

A pause.  "Do we have to, sir?" whined a voice from below.  "Our ears are still ringing from the last time."

"I've had just about enough of your pusillanimous insubordination, Simpkins!" shrieked the Admiral.  "Now, roll out the Really Big Cannon and blow up those terrorists this instant!"

A sigh.  "Aye-aye, sir.."  The largest cannon port opened, revealing a muzzle of truly impressive breadth.

"Fiiiiiiiiire!!"

The cannon launched its projectile with a burst of flame and smoke, directly at those rebellious pirates.  Guybrush looked up, saw it coming, started to bolt...

CRASH!

Billowing clouds of sand obscured the scene.

Guybrush returned to Jambalaya miraculously intact and slightly more self-actualized.  Casaba's projectile had completely shattered the enormous boulder, and Guybrush leaped down into the crater and retrieved his prize.  The bronze hat was safely tucked out of sight in some pocket of his pants.  Where?  He had no clue.  He'd find it when he sat on it.

After some exploring in town, he found the silver monkey head in a small theme restaurant called Planet Threepwood.  The less said about that, the better.  Guybrush had been shocked, insulted, and horrified--and he hadn't even entered yet.

Murray was the doorman.  Well, door head. "Taste authentic pirate cuisine!" he chattered to the disinterested tourists.  "Hear beautiful pirate music!  Feel your souls gently ripped from your bodies..."

"Murray!" admonished a woman from inside.

"Muahaa."  The incarnation of pure evil sat happily on a stool, teeth clattering, glaring from his empty eye sockets--

"Murray?  Murray the evil skull?"

"Guybrush?  Guybrush the mortal pirate?"

"Wow!  It is a small world after all!"  The incongruity of being pleased to meet something that had tried to kill him at least once was lost on Guybrush.  "How would you like to become an integral part of a powerful voodoo talisman?" he offered.

"Is it an evil talisman?" Murray asked, bouncing excitedly on the stool.

"Potentially."

"What is it called?

"The Ultimate Insult."

"The Ultimate–!"  Murray spluttered in shock.  "Don't be naive, mortal!  The Ultimate Insult is too powerful to be wielded by the likes of you.

"But I need a headpiece, and you'd be perfect."  He pulled out his diagram again.  "See?"

"You fool!"  Murray bounced angrily.  "This diagram clearly indicates you need a monkey head.  I am a human head."

"I just thought.."

"Well, think a little harder.  I want no part of the Ultimate Insult tomfoolery."

Dejected, Guybrush put the drawing away.  "Are you sure you don't want to be part of the Ultimate Insult?"

"I may be evil, but I'm not crazy."  Murray replied firmly.

He gave it up as a lost cause and went inside.

Planet Threepwood was a tacky theme restaurant.  Worse, it was a Guybrush-themed restaurant.  Which meant that it was filled with a number of things he certainly couldn't remember donating.  His old outfit from The Secret of Monkey Island, for example, or that pair of shoes, or Elaine's music box--or that 20-foot-tall statue of Elaine herself!

Sickened and not at all flattered, he sat down uneasily, wondering what possible use a place like this might be to him.  After all, he needed a silver monkey head, not some memento of his past voyages.  Any silver monkey head, at this point.

He sat down.  An almost obscenely curvaceous blonde waitress with a very impressive...ponytail..wiggled her way over.  Belatedly, he remembered that the coupon for a Monkey Mug Meal from Stan's Time-Share Emporium was redeemable here and handed it over.

"Very good, sir," she said in a weary voice.  "Please note that, due to the unexpectedly high demand, we are no longer providing the entree portion of the meal for coupon-bearing customers.  However, you will still receive your complimentary beverage in our ceremonial Mega Monkey Mug."  That was fine; he wasn't certain he wanted to eat here anyway.

He remained at his table, musing.  The waitress set something down in front of him, but he paid little attention.  A silver monkey head.  Where was he going to find--

Then he turned and looked at the object in front of him.  A silver monkey head.

There it sat, the Mega Monkey Mug.  It was a silver cup with two handles, made to resemble the smiling face of an ape. 

A mug?  One piece of the most magikal voodoo talisman in the world was a mug?

As he held the thing uncertainly, some jolly and overweight pseudo-pirate came bouncing over.  "Would you like a free pirate caricature?" the man asked.

"Um...okay.." Guybrush paid no attention, wondering what this thing was and whether he could get it out of Planet Threepwood without anyone noticing.  Obviously it was one-of-a-kind, and the restaurant wouldn't take it well if he stole it.

The man sketched and scribbled while Guybrush contemplated, then flung a completed sheet of paper on the table in front of him.  There he stood, looking goofy and dorky.  The only thing that looked at all similar to life was the infuriating Mega Monkey Mug.

Guybrush was just about to go try to find some other way to complete the Ultimate Insult that wouldn't involve dishware when he rediscovered the oddly-shaped ceramic Starbuccaneers mug he'd...um....borrowed from Mabel the dental hygienist earlier.  As he'd thought, it was exactly the same shape as the silver Monkey Mug.  His piratey instincts came to the fore.  Deftly, he pried the monkey face from the cartoon.  Some paste, a ruined caricature, and a stealthy swap later, the bogus Monkey Mug was on the table and the real thing was in his deepest pocket.

This might actually pass for the original, he thought, impressed.  If it was dark... and the person looking was stupid.

Well, it was dim in this corner of the room, and Elayne the waitress didn't seem to be keeping all of her attention on the job.  He decided it was worth the risk.

Guybrush Threepwood, Master Thief, walked unchallenged past the checkout counter and out the door, silver Monkey Mug in hand.   As with the situation in the Lua Bar or the Transmogrification Academy, he felt that, somehow, justice had been served.

Now only one item remained.  It was time for his long-awaited showdown with the World's Greatest Plank Diver.

He nodded and coolly addressed the Spanish champion.  "I'm back."

Marco de Pollo was just as greasy as he remembered.  "So I see.  What can I do for you, Mr. Threepwood?"

"I'd like to dive against you."

"Against me?" de Pollo snapped, incredulously.  "Are you some sort of masochist?"

Guybrush folded his arms.  "I dunno.  Are you some kind of chicken?"

"Oh, fine." de Pollo sighed.  "Just remember, you asked for this humiliation." 

Guybrush smirked.  He knew the moves.  He had the dunce cap now, to give him a nice pointy outline when he hit the water.  He'd bribed the judges…

...he'd stealthily added a nice, juicy wad of bagel chunks and salmon-lox Schmear Wiz™ to the baby seal oil that Marco de Pollo was obsessively slathering on his hair.. 

This was it.  He couldn't lose.

"Marco de Pollo is about to attempt an....Alpha Monkey, Keehaul, Rum Barrel combination," announced the loudspeakers.  "Let's give him complete silence for this dive."

Guybrush craned his neck.  From his vantage point, de Pollo was a black and white blur.  His figure twisted and bent as it performed its moves, twisting left, rolling gracefully up and down--and he hit the water with barely a ripple.  The crowds roared.  The judges each gave him a 10.  Guybrush yawned.

De Pollo strutted back to the changing tents with an insufferable smirk.  "I do not envy you, Mister Threepwood," he sneered.  Guybrush just smiled to himself and climbed the diving tower.

He put the dunce cap firmly in place and leaped into the heavens. 

LEFT.

UP.

DOWN.

Splash.

He climbed from the water to the startling sound of applause.  The judges held up three 10s.  De Pollo looked nonplussed.

"Whoa, dudes," Tripps, the hippie judge, announced.  "This is unprecedented.  The newcomer has tied Marco de Pollo."

The crowd muttered uneasily.  "What happens now?" Guybrush asked.

"We move on to the tiebreaker round," the wise old Kahuna replied.

"Scissors Rock Paper?" Guybrush suggested.  He hoped it would be Insult Scissors Rock Paper.

"You wish," said grumpy red-headed Edd sourly.  "In this round of dives, you will go first and de Pollo will try to match your dive."

De Pollo strutted over to the judges' stand.  "You have shown that you can mimic my moves, Mister Threepwood," he said, "but I doubt that you can concoct a dive that I cannot perform!"

"We'll just see about that, dive monkey." 

"Very well.  The plank is yours."

Guybrush ascended the tower once more.  He looked down.  He'd forgotten what a long, long way down it was to the splash pool below...

Dunce cap in place. 

Three bounces, and...

RIGHT.

DOWN.

LEFT.

Splash.

He broke the surface to another round of applause.  "Not bad, Mister Threepwood," de Pollo commented, dripping insincerity.  "Just give me a moment to prepare for my dive..." 

He sauntered away to the changing tents, where the bottle of adulterated baby seal oil was beginning to attract seagulls.  Oblivious, he smeared the fishy substance in his hair and ascended to the plank.  "Now, my friends, prepare to watch a master in action," he called as he passed the stand.

This oughta be good, Guybrush thought.

"Now Marco de Pollo will attempt to beat Guybrush Threepwood's dive," announced the loudspeakers.  Loud cawing was making it difficult to hear the judges.  Attracted by the scent of de Pollo's fishy hairdo, the seagulls were coming in.  In flocks.

"What?"  Marco slowly became aware of the danger, as the white forms moved in on him.. "Shoo!  Go away!"  The Spanish diver backed to the edge of the platform, then out onto the plank itself.  Teetering on the edge, he turned and sprang for safety.

The resulting dive had a feeling of inevitable tragedy.  As de Pollo leapt, a dozen seagulls attacked him in mid-air. 

"Aeieeeee!!" 

With flailing arms and a terrified scream, he fell backwards into the water. 

SPLASH. 

Guybrush winced.

The judges barely deliberated.  10.  1.  3.  Marco pried his sore self from the pool and stalked over to face the stands, scowling.

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced the Judge Kahuna.

"The new All-World Plank Diving Champion is.." continued Judge Tripps.

"Guybrush Threepwood!" finished Judge Edd, to thunderous applause.

Marco de Pollo seemed almost unable to put words together.  "I..I protest!" he began.  "That was not a fair dive!  I want a rematch, right now.  I am Marco de Pollo, the greatest plank diver in the world!"

Guybrush ducked his head.  "Maarcoo," he called softly.

"Poooloooo," chorused everyone within earshot.

The former champion stiffened.  "Who said that?" he demanded.

Guybrush studiously looked the other way.  "Maaaarcooo."

"Poooooloooo."

"Stop it!" cried de Pollo, shoving his hands into his ears.  "I will not be mocked!"

"Maaaaarcoo," chorused the bystanders.

"Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!"

"Pooolooo!"

With a scream like a frustrated six-year-old, Marco de Pollo put his hands to his ears and ran from the diving arena.  And the audience burst into applause.

Guybrush held the golden trophy aloft in triumph.  He wondered how Elaine was doing...

"Mister Cheese."

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"Raise the anchor, hoist the sails, and ready the warp drive," Guybrush ordered.

"Aye, Cap'n."

Guybrush turned to the rest of his crew.  "Otis!"

"Whaaaat?" whined the little pirate.

"Go find Carla and sober her up."

"Oh, yeah...that'll be easy," Otis remarked sarcastically, heading for the Micro-Groggery.

Guybrush put his hands on his hips.  "Now that the pieces of the Ultimate Insult are mine, it's back to Mêlée Island™," he announced boldly to an empty deck, a vulgar lady figurehead, and an unimpressed Cheese.  He sighed.  Sooner or later he'd perfect his Unnecessarily Bold Proclamation timing...

Guybrush threw open the doors to his beloved mansion.  "Honey, I'm ho-"

The place was deserted.  Most of the documents were missing.  The floor looked scorched.  "..ome?" Guybrush finished uncertainly.

Muaha haa haa....  The laughter seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  Elaine's gubernatorial chair swivelled around, to reveal--

 "Muahahaha haa!" roared the flame-beared Demon Pirate in triumph.

"LeChuck!" cried Guybrush accusingly.

"That's 'Governor LeChuck' to you, Seepgood."  LeChuck strolled casually around his new desk, smiling in a way that boded absolutely no good for Guybrush.

The mighty pirate was temporarily at a loss for words.  "No way!"

"Yes, way," sneered a new voice.

"Ozzie!  I had a feeling you were working for LeChuck."  He glared at the hunchbacked old man who now made his way forward to stand at the demon pirate's side.

"I'm afraid you've got it backwards, pirate-boy.  LeChuck's working for me."  He trained a pistol on Guybrush's nose, who jumped back in surprise.

"Well...that makes me feel better.."  Guybrush raised his hands helplessly into the air.

"Governor LeChuck, would you be so kind as to relieve Mister Threepwood of the pieces of the Ultimate Insult?"

"Aye.  It'd be a pleasure, Mr. Mandrill."  LeChuck advanced on Guybrush, who backed away as far as he dared.

"Don't do it, LeChuck!  He wants to use the Ultimate Insult to humiliate every pirate on the face of the earth!"

"And...?"  LeChuck didn't hesitate.

"Y..you know?" demanded Guybrush incredulously, now dangling from his right ankle as LeChuck shook him.

"Oh, of course he knows, you sloth-brained pile of kookaburra droppings," snarled Ozzie impatiently, looking through the growing pile of items which fell from Guybrush's pockets.

"But why, LeChuck?  Why would a swashbuckling--albeit demonically evil--pirate like yourself willingly aid in the mass emasculation of your fellow buccaneers?"  He attempted a weak punch at LeChuck, which missed, then landed in a heap on the floor as the demon dropped him.

"Well.....that's a long story, Sheepgood...."

"..oh, no..." moaned Guybrush, getting to his feet again...

"...but it basically boils down to two reasons.  First of all, this Mandrill scalawag pulled me out from under that mountain of ice that you left me under....and LeChuck always repays his debts.."

There was a glint in those undead eyes that Guybrush didn't like at all.  "Fine, you owe the guy, but why go along with this plan to irreversibly insult all the pirates?"

Ozzie administered a rap with his cane.  "Because, you seafaring scum-weasel," he began as Guybrush blinked, "when we succeed in breaking the fighting spirit of all the pirates, LeChuck will finally have the one thing he's always wanted in life.  Or death, as the case may be," Ozzie added as an afterthought.

Guybrush glanced at the portrait of Elaine on the wall.  "You don't mean--"

"Yess.."  LeChuck's undead glee was unmistakable.  "Elaine Marley's hand in marriage."

Guybrush shook his head, amused.  "Excuse me.  See the ring on this finger?  You're a little late, bucko."

"We-eell, I think I can fix that."  LeChuck's eyes glowed.  He began to swell up to twice his usual size.  The heat of his body seared the floorboards–

"LeChuck, no!  We may need him as a hostage!"  Ozzie's dry voice rattled through the demonic hiss of hellfire. 

"Uh....yeah...a hostage."  Guybrush edged away from the murderous demon pirate.  "And besides, even if you kill me, Elaine'll still never marry you," he added firmly.  "She hates your stinking undead guts."

"Ah, but that's the beauty of the Ultimate Insult, Threepwood," Ozzie put in.  "Once your wife has been exposed to its hideous, demoralizing power, her fiery pirate spirit will be crushed like so many emu eggs."  A mirthless smile crossed his lips.  "Leaving her compliant, submissive, and obedient."

"In other words, the perfect wife!" LeChuck chimed in.

"Speaking of perfect wives, where is Elaine?" Guybrush asked. 

"We were hoping you could answer that question, Mister Threepwood," Ozzie kept the pistol trained on his face.  "Your mischievous sheila went walkabout right after Captain LeChuck was elected governor of this pirate-infested backwater of an island."

"Good for her," Guybrush declared to the gun barrel.  "I hope she comes back with an army of pirates and kicks your sorry butts."

LeChuck visibly swelled.  "Are you sure I can't kill him yet?" he whined.  "I've left him alive before, and it's always turned out to be a big mistake."

"I see your point."  Ozzie looked down the gun barrel, a calculating gleam in his eyes.  Guybrush wondered briefly if that would be the last thing he ever saw.

But the moment passed.  "How about we stow the twerp in an inescapable, faraway place where he can't do any harm?  Then he'll still be a useful hostage, but he won't be able to affect our plans."

LeChuck considered.  Then he laughed.  "That's a hellishly good idea.  And I know just the place.  Muahahahahahahahaa!"

Ozzie threw his head back.  "Mwahaahaa!"

Guybrush looked uneasily from one to the other.  "Mwha.haahaha...haaa..?"

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